Moonwar gt-7

by Ben Bova

  “Moonbase will continue to supply water to Nippon One,” Joanna said flatly, not making a question of it.

  Reluctantly, Faure nodded.

  “And Moonbase will continue to manufacture spacecraft using nanomachines,” she added.

  “Only temporarily,” Faure replied once he heard her words. “You have contracts with various international transport companies. The United Nations will see that those contractual obligations are fulfilled.”

  “Of course,” said Joanna graciously. “And by the time all our backlog orders have been filled, the United Nations will find that nanomanufacturing can be quite profitable. And not harmful in the slightest. Right?”

  Faure leaned tensely toward the camera. “Madame Brudnoy, the nanotechnology treaty exists because of the fears that nanomachines have created. Your own husband was killed by nanomachines, was he not?”

  Joanna kept herself from flinching. I should have expected that, she told herself.

  Without pausing, Faure went on, “Nanotechnology can produce insidious weapons, deadly weapons. Nanomachines can kill, as you well know. A mistake, an error, and runaway nanomachines could devour everything in their path, like those armies of ants in South America that devastate entire landscapes and leave nothing alive in their wake.”

  His moustache bristling with fervor, Faure continued, “We cannot have nanomachines on Earth! No matter what glorious benefits they promise, we cannot take the risk that they present to us.”

  “But we’re not on the Earth. You could allow nanomanufacturing here on the Moon,” said Joanna.

  He replied, “I am willing to allow it on a temporary, experimental basis—under United Nations’ control.”

  With sudden understanding, Joanna said, “Because Yamagata insisted on it. And if Yamagata didn’t go along with you, then the Japanese government would oppose your takeover of Moonbase and you can’t afford to have them against you.”

  She realized that that was the truth of it. If Japan opposed Faure’s plans, a whole bloc of opposition would arise in the U.N.

  “You are very perspicacious,” Faure said. He leaned back in his chair, seemed to relax. “But the facts are that Japan supports my efforts and the Peacekeepers will be landing at Moonbase in less than twenty hours. Fait accompli!”

  “And who’s going to run Moonbase after the Peacekeepers land?”

  Once Faure heard her question, he smiled like the Chesire cat. “Why, who else but specialists from Yamagata Corporation?”

  Joanna could not have been more stunned if Faure had leaped across the quarter-million miles separating them and punched her. She simply sat in her armchair, mouth hanging open, while Faure smiled his widest at her.

  TOUCHDOWN MINUS 17 HOURS 38 MINUTES

  Dr Hector Montana was not known for his bedside manner. He was a brusque, no-nonsense physician who had spent most of his career dealing with factory workers, construction crews, and industrial accidents. He was a capable surgeon and, thanks to Moonbase’s electronic communications systems, he could consult and even work with virtually any physician on Earth.

  Until the war sprang up.

  Now he scowled openly at the young couple sitting tensely before his desk. He was a slim, pinch-faced man with graying hair combed straight back off his low forehead. His skin was the color of sun-dried adobe. His profile looked as if it had been carved by an ancient Mayan: high cheekbones, prominent nose.

  “Pregnant.” He made the word sound like an accusation.

  “Yes,” said Claire Rossi. “There’s no doubt about it.”

  “I’m not an obstetrician.”

  “Yes, but we thought you should know.”

  O’Malley spoke up, “I want to make sure she gets the best medical attention possible.”

  “Then you should’ve taken some precautions beforehand,” Dr Montana snapped. “We don’t have facilities for this sort of thing here.”

  Nick bulled his shoulders forward slightly, matching the physician’s frown with one of his own. “We don’t need facilities, for God’s sake. I just want to see that she gets the proper care.”

  “I can’t even get in touch with other medical centers back on Earth,” Montana grumbled. “We’ve been blacked out.”

  “Surely this emergency will be over with soon enough for me to go back Earthside,” said Claire. As chief of the personnel department, she knew Moonbase’s policy perfectly well. Pregnant women were shipped back Earthside before their pregnancies became so advanced that rocket flight was not recommended.

  “And what if it isn’t?” Montana snapped.

  “Then you’ll have to take care of her,” O’Malley said, with more than a hint of belligerence in his voice. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

  “You want my considered medical advice? Abort it. Get rid of it now, to be on the safe side. There’s no telling how long this stupid blockade is going to last.”

  “We can’t!” O’Malley said.

  “You’re young enough to have a dozen babies. This one is bad timing, that’s all.”

  “I won’t,” Claire said quietly.

  “You’re both Catholic, is that it?” Montana’s voice softened slightly. “I am too. The Church won’t—”

  “We’re not going to have an abortion,” O’Malley said, his voice darkening. “And that’s final.”

  Montana huffed at him. “Well, maybe the Peacekeepers will take over the base and send us all back home.”

  TOUCHDOWN MINUS 12 HOURS 22 MINUTES

  Doug stood atop a house-sized boulder and watched the drivers park their tractors on the three unoccupied landing pads of the rocket port. The half-built Clippership that had been towed onto the fourth pad gleamed in the starlight.

  Jinny Anson, recognizable by the bright rings of butter yellow on the arms of her bulky spacesuit, stood beside him.

  “Okay,” her voice said in his helmet earphones, “we clutter up the landing pads so they can’t use ’em. But they can still put down on the crater floor just about anywhere they want to.”

  Doug nodded inside his helmet. Jinny was right. Alphonsus’s floor was flat enough for a Clippership to set down. The ground was cracked with rilles, pockmarked with small craters and strewn with rocks, but there were plenty of open spaces where a good pilot could make a landing.

  “All you’re doing is forcing ’em to sit down a kilometer or so farther away from our main airlock,” Anson went on. “What good’s that going to do?”

  “Maybe none,” Doug admitted. “But I sure as hell don’t intend to let them use our landing pads.”

  He sensed Anson shrugging inside her suit.

  “Jinny, it’s just about the only chance we’ve got, other than just folding up and surrendering.”

  “That damned Quebecer wants to turn the base over to Yamagata?” Anson asked for the fortieth time.

  “That’s what he told my mother.”

  “Son of a bitch.” She pronounced each word distinctly, with feeling.

  “Come on, let’s get inside,” Doug said. “They’re finished here and I want to see how far Zimmerman and Cardenas have gotten along.”

  The nanotech lab was a series of workshops set along one of the old Moonbase tunnels. The rooms were interconnected by airtight hatches and that entire section of corridor could be sealed off from the rest of the base, if necessary. Each workshop room and the corridor outside had powerful ultraviolet lamps running along their bare rock ceilings, capable of disabling any of the virus-sized nanomachines that might have inadvertently been released to float in the air. The floors and walls were strung with buried wires that could generate a polarizing current that would also deactivate any stray nanomachines.

  These safety systems were turned on at the end of every working day, to guarantee that no nanomachines infected the rest of the base. The containment worked. Although nanomachines were assembled constantly for tasks as diverse as ferreting oxygen atoms out of the regolith and building spacecraft structures of pure diamond out of c
arbon dust from asteroids, there had been no runaway ‘gray goo’ of nanomachines devouring everything in their path, no plagues of nanobug diseases.

  Over the years Professors Cardenas and Zimmerman and their assistants had developed nanomachines for medical uses. Moonbase employees regularly received nano injections to scrub plaque from their blood vessels and to augment their natural immune systems. In a closed environment such as the underground base, nanotherapy helped to prevent epidemics that might endanger the entire population. It was a standing joke that people returned from Moonbase healthier than they arrived. No one in Moonbase even had the sniffles, except for those few who were allergic to the ubiquitous lunar dust.

  And the Cardenas/Zimmerman team was working on that.

  Or had been, until the U.N. crisis erupted.

  Doug went to Cardenas. Zimmerman would see no one; he had locked himself in his lab with orders that he could not, must not, would not be disturbed under any circumstances whatsoever.

  “It’s my fault,” Kris Cardenas told Doug. “I teased Willi that afternoon you came to us in the university studio, told him he ought to figure out how to make a person invisible.”

  “That’s what he’s working on?”

  Cardenas nodded.

  “But what help is that going to be?”

  She shrugged. “Leave him alone. While he’s pushing down that line he’ll probably come up with one or two other things that’ll be really useful.”

  Doug started to object, but Cardenas added, “It won’t do you any good to try to get him onto another track. He’ll just bluster and roar and go right back to what he wants to do.”

  “I know,” Doug admitted ruefully.

  “Let me show you what we’ve accomplished,” Cardenas said, leading Doug to the massive gray metal tubing of the high-voltage scanning probe microscope that stood at one end of the lab table.

  The two scientists working at the table made room for them. Cardenas peered at the microscope’s display screen briefly, made a small adjustment on a roller dial, then turned smiling to Doug.

  “Take a look.”

  The display screen showed a swarm of dots surrounding a flat grayish thing. The gray material was shrinking rapidly. The dots seemed to be devouring it like a pack of scavengers tearing apart a bleeding carcass.

  “We’ve revived an old idea,” Cardenas said as he watched. “Something we were working on more than twenty years ago, back Earthside.”

  Slowly, Doug backed away from the screen and looked into her brilliant blue eyes. “Gobblers,” he whispered.

  “Right. This particular set is programmed to disassemble carbon-based molecules…” Her voice trailed off as she saw the expression on Doug’s face and realized that it had been gobblers, from her own lab in San Jose, that had killed Doug’s father up on Wodjohowitcz Pass.

  “Oh!” she said, fingers flying to her lips.

  Doug fought the memory. It had happened before he’d been born. He’d been eighteen when he finally discovered that his half-brother Greg had used gobbler nanomachines to murder Paul Stavenger. That’s all in the past, Doug told himself. Greg’s been dead for seven years and it’s all over and there’s nothing you or anybody else can do to change the past.

  “It’s all right,” he said brusquely to Cardenas. “I was just… it just caught me unawares, that’s all.”

  “I had forgotten,” Cardenas said, her voice low, trembling slightly. “Twenty-five years ago…”

  “It’s all right,” he repeated. Taking a deep breath, he tried to bury the past and concentrate on the present.

  “By the time the Peacekeepers land, though, the Sun will be up and the nanomachines will go into estivation, won’t they?”

  “We can program a batch to work at high temperature.”

  “What about the UV?”

  Cardenas nodded and leaned her butt on the edge of the work bench. “It’s pretty intense in sunlight, yeah. But I think we can work around it.”

  “We don’t want a set of nanobugs that can’t be turned off,” Doug warned.

  She almost smiled. “Scared of the gray goo?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.” She lowered her head a moment, thinking. “Look, when the ship lands, what actually touches the ground?”

  “Four landing pads. They’re about two meters in diameter and twenty, thirty centimeters thick.”

  “And made of diamond?”

  Doug nodded. “Their surfaces and internal bracing are diamond. There’re some hydraulic lines inside them.”

  “The hydraulics are oil-based?”

  “As far as I know, yes. I could check with the manufacturing division to make sure.”

  “Okay,” Cardenas said, walking slowly away from the electron microscope. Doug followed in step beside her.

  “The ship lands, right?” she said, thinking out loud. “Its landing pads come down on top of our gobblers. Covers them up, so they’re no longer in sunlight. And they’re shielded from the UV.”

  “I get it. Then they can eat their way inside the landing pads and start taking the hydraulic system apart.”

  “You got it.”

  Doug broke into a grin, but it faded before it was truly started. “Only one problem, Kris.”

  “What’s that?”

  “What good’s it going to do us to prevent their Clippership from leaving the Moon? We want to stop them from getting here.”

  TOUCHDOWN MINUS 11 HOURS 45 MINUTES

  Zoltan Kadar sat bleary-eyed in the middle of his monitoring screens, almost in tears as he squinted at the drawing of the Farside observatory. A beautiful dream, he told himself. My crowning achievement. It would be called the Kadar Observatory some day.

  But it’s only a dream. I can’t even get an observation satellite to survey the ground.

  For more than three days and three sleepless nights Kadar had hounded Doug Stavenger, to no avail. Most of his calls were intercepted by Jinny Anson, who sternly told him not to bother Stavenger.

  “He’s got too much to do, Zoltan, to worry about your satellite shot.”

  Twice he actually got to Stavenger himself, by tracking down Doug’s movements through the length and breadth -and depth—of Moonbase.

  The first time, he accosted Stavenger as Doug was talking with the technicians in the control center. Doug listened patiently to Kadar’s complaints, then gripped the astronomer’s slim shoulder.

  “Dr Kadar—”

  “Professor Kadar!”

  Doug almost laughed in his face. “Professor Kadar, I understand how upset and frustrated you must feel. But you’re not the only one. All our outside activities have been shut down, except for our preparations for defending Moonbase against the Peacekeepers. I’m afraid your survey of Farside is just going to have to wait.”

  And with that, a solidly built, grim-faced black man took Kadar’s other arm and firmly led him to the door. Kadar glared at him, and when that didn’t work, he stared at the man’s nametag on his shirt front.

  “Mr Gordette,” Kadar said with as much dignity as he could muster,’there is no need for you to leave your fingerprints on my arm.”

  Gordette released him. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Just wanted to make sure you leave Doug alone. He’s got a lot to do, you know.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  Late that night Kadar actually got Stavenger on the phone. If I can’t sleep, Kadar told himself, why should he?

  But Stavenger didn’t seem to be sleeping. His image came up immediately on the smart wall of Kadar’s quarters. Stavenger was sitting at a desk in his own quarters, wide awake.

  “Dr Kadar,” Doug said as soon as he recognized his caller’s face.

  “I’m sorry to call so late—”

  “It doesn’t matter. I was just going over our inventories of supplies.”

  “My satellite is ready for launch,” Kadar said. “All I need is your approval and—”

  “With all due respect, Professor Kadar, the
re’s no chance in hell of your getting your satellite launched until this crisis with the Peacekeepers is resolved.”

  “It’s only one small rocket. They’ll see that it’s going into a lunar orbit.”

  “I’m not going to debate the point, Professor. No launch.”

  “You’re standing in the way of science!”

  Wearily, Doug replied, “Maybe I am. It can’t be helped. If it’s any consolation, there are a lot of other frustrated people in the base right now. We’ve got a whole troupe of ballet dancers here who can’t return Earthside until this mess is resolved.”

  Ballet dancers did not assuage Kadar’s feelings. But as he sat amidst his monitoring screens, admiring the drawings of what would someday be the Kadar Observatory on the far side of the Moon, he suddenly realized that frustrated ballet dancers might be more appreciative of his predicament than the management of Moonbase.

  Ballet dancers. Kadar pulled himself up from his console chair and headed for his quarters. A shower, a shave, some clean clothes—if I must spend this crisis in frustration, perhaps there is a charming ballerina or two who can understand me and offer consolation.

  TOUCHDOWN MINUS 9 HOURS 45 MINUTES

  “I’ve never felt so frustrated in my whole life!” Joanna slapped her palm against the ornate little table that stood at the end of her couch.

  Startled, Lev Brudnoy looked across the room at her.

  “No one answers my calls,” Joanna complained. “No one even acknowledges that they’ve received my calls! It’s like shouting into a deep, dark mine shaft!”

  Brudnoy turned off the wall display he had been studying, got up from his chair and went to sit beside his wife.

  “Faure’s people are in control of the commsats,” he said gently. “Most probably they are not letting your messages get through to Earth.”

  “But I’ve beamed calls directly to the World Court in The Hague. I’ve even had our own people in Savannah relay my messages to Holland. No response. Not even a flicker.”