Moonwar gt-7

by Ben Bova

  “It’s not Professor Inoguchi’s fault that we’re being attacked,” Cardenas said. “I think it’s very generous of him to assist us.”

  Inoguchi said, “I am most honored to work with you both.”

  “And looking forward to running this lab once the Peacekeepers have driven us out,” Zimmerman insisted.

  Squaring his shoulders visibly, Inoguchi said, “Yes, that is true. What would you expect me to do, go back to Japan and allow someone else to take over this laboratory?”

  Cardenas laughed. “He’s right, Willi. Why shouldn’t he want to run this facility? It’s the most advanced in the world.”

  “In the solar system!” Zimmerman corrected.

  To Cardenas, Inoguchi said, “I have offered a position here to Professor Zimmerman. I would be most honored if you, a Nobel Laureate, would remain here to continue your work.”

  Cardenas replied, “Assuming that the Peacekeepers actually do take over the base.”

  “And hand it over to Yamagata Industries,” Zimmerman groused.

  Inoguchi snapped his chin down in a nod that almost became a little bow.

  Her smile fading, Cardenas said, “Would you offer a position to my husband, as well? He’s a neurosurgeon. I won’t stay here if he can’t.”

  Inoguchi immediately answered, “Yes, of course.”

  “Most of the work Pete’s done has been by virtual reality link Earthside, since we’ve come up to Moonbase,” Cardenas mused, thinking out loud. “If he can continue doing that he’ll stay. Otherwise we’ll have a problem.”

  “Perhaps I can obtain an appointment with Tokyo University for him,” Inoguchi said. “Or Osaka. He could remain at Moonbase indefinitely and work with his colleagues through electronic links.”

  “Is your husband at The Cave?” Zimmerman asked sourly.

  “No,” Cardenas said, turning her attention to the old man. “He’s at the infirmary, ready to help the medics with any surgery that might be needed.”

  “I sincerely hope that it will not come to that,” Inoguchi said.

  “So do we all,” said Cardenas.

  Claire Rossi felt as if she were in a nightmare. She moved through the crowd milling around in The Cave with nothing to do, nowhere to go, and the vision of that missile hanging over her head in the big wall screens.

  “Can I buy you lunch?”

  Whirling, she saw Nick O’Malley, big, lumbering redhead, grinning down at her.

  “Nick! Why aren’t you in the control center?”

  “They let me out to eat now and then,” he said, sliding an arm around her waist. “Come on, I’ll buy you the best soyburger in town.”

  He kept up a cheerful patter as they picked up trays and made their selections from the stainless steel dispensers. Once they were seated at a table for two off in a far corner of The Cave, O’Malley dug into his burger.

  But Claire found she had no appetite. “I can’t eat anything,” she said, sliding her plate away from her.

  O’Malley pushed it back. “Hey, you’re eating for two, you know. Got to keep up your strength.”

  She looked up at the wall screen, with the missile hanging there like the ringer of death pointed at them.

  “They’re going to kill us all, aren’t they?” she said, her voice choking in her throat.

  O’Malley clutched her hand. “Nobody’s going to get killed. We’re safe and snug in here.”

  “Don’t try to kid me, Nick. Without electrical power we’re done.”

  “If they nuke the solar farms—and that’s an if, mind you -Doug will surrender and the Peacekeepers will come in without firing a shot. Nobody’s going to die in defense of Moonbase, don’t you worry.”

  “You’re certain?”

  O’Malley’s florid face turned solemn. “Listen, Claire darling. I’m stationed in the control center, running the dust. I’ll be right beside Stavenger. If he doesn’t surrender I’ll clout him on the head and take over. I’ll surrender for him, if I have to.”

  Claire tried to smile for him, but she wondered if her husband really had the strength to do what he promised.

  “We’ve got a second-stage burn!” the comm tech yelped.

  Wicksen jerked with surprise. “What?”

  “Second-stage burn,” she repeated. “They held off on it until they made their midcourse correction. Accelerated by a factor of two, at least. Computer’s chewing on the numbers.”

  “How much time do we have?” Wicksen asked, feeling frightened for the first time.

  “Looks like… forty-two minutes.”

  “By all the saints in heaven,” Wicksen muttered. “All right, thanks for the bad news.”

  Banging the suit-to-suit key on his wrist pad, Wix called out, “New data. We’ve got forty minutes, max.”

  The four spacesuited figures all turned toward him.

  “I know it’s not enough time,” Wicksen said. “Power up the magnets. Check out all the connections. I’ll slave the pointing system to the control center’s radar plot.”

  “Better warn the base they’re gonna get browned out,” one of his assistants said.

  “Right,” said Wicksen, running as fast as he could in the cumbersome spacesuit to the jury-rigged set of pointing magnets.

  This has got to work the first time, he said to himself. It’s got to! If there’s a saint in heaven who can cancel Murphy’s Law for a few minutes, now’s the time to do it.

  It was as close to prayer as Wicksen had ever come.

  Jack Killifer fidgeted nervously in the kitchen of Joanna Brudnoy’s house. The closer he got to his goal, the more jittery he felt.

  Stop it! he commanded himself. Calm yourself down.

  He wasn’t afraid to kill Joanna Brudnoy, nor her Russian feeb of a husband. It was getting away with it that worried him. Sure, his ID in the Masterson files had been artfully faked. Anybody looking for his picture or prints in the computer would get a totally artificial set of pixels. Nobody was going to trace him that way.

  It was the other security personnel that worried him. They knew his face. Even with the moustache and change in his hair color, they’d be able to identify him.

  General O’Conner’ll take care of me, he tried to assure himself. The Urban Corps had plenty of resources. They could provide him with a complete alibi, show the police that Killifer had been on assignment in Tacoma or Timbuktu, all neatly filed in their computer records.

  They had outfaced Interpol, for God’s sake, when the international investigators had come asking about Tamara Bonai’s death. Thanks to O’Conner’s people, Killifer had an iron-clad alibi and Doug Stavenger’s identification had been tossed aside. The cops didn’t trust virtual reality evidence, anyway: too easy to fake or spoof.

  But why did O’Conner insist on me doing this alone? Killifer asked himself again and again.

  ‘God’s work has to be done by God’s people, Jack.’ the general had told him. ‘It would be wrong to bring in an outsider. Wrong, and dangerous. The fewer people know about this, the better off we are.’

  He wouldn’t have to bring in outside people, for crap’s sake, Killifer growled to himself. He could get a dozen Urban Corps volunteers or people from one of the other New Morality groups. Shit, they’ve knocked off hundreds of people over the past few years. Why do I have to take on Joanna Brudnoy alone?

  Because you’re the one who wants to do her, the answer came to him. O’Conner doesn’t give a fuck about Joanna; this is your vendetta, not his. That’s why he won’t give you any support, any backup.

  Okay, he told himself, trying to steady his trembling hands. She’s in the bedroom with her old man. You’re the only security guard inside the house, except for Rodriguez monitoring the security cameras down in the servants’ quarters. You just go upstairs and pop her. The husband, too. Maybe they’re screwing and you can get them both with one shot. He almost laughed at the thought.

  But what then? Killifer had rehearsed his moves a thousand times in his mind, but it s
till didn’t come out right. Rodriguez won’t hear the shots, he’s too far away, too many walls between him and the bedroom.

  Okay. Once you leave the bedroom Rodriguez can see you on the security cameras. So you go back to the kitchen and out to the garage, just like you’re doing your regular rounds. Only, you get into your car and get the fuck out of here before he figures out that they’re dead up in the bedroom.

  And then what? Drive straight to Atlanta, he told himself. Straight to Urban Corps headquarters and General O’Conner. Let them hide your car. Stick close to the General, make sure he’ll protect you if the cops or Masterson’s security people come after you.

  That’ll work, he tried to assure himself. It’ll be okay. O’Conner’ll have this killing on me, but I’ll have something on him, too: his helping me to get away with it.

  Grimacing, he slid the heavy machine pistol out of the oiled holster at his hip and popped its magazine. Fully loaded, ready to go. He slid the magazine back into place, then worked the action with a metallic click-dick, jacking a round into the firing chamber.

  Making certain the safety was off, Killifer carefully slipped the pistol back into its holster, then pushed himself up from the kitchen table and started off toward Joanna Brudnoy’s bedroom.

  CONTROL CENTER

  The astronomical telescope’s view showed the incoming missile pointing at them, more and more of a nose-on view as it sped to its target in the crater Alphonsus. Doug watched the display screen almost as if hypnotized.

  “For what it’s worth,” came a man’s voice from beside him,’the dust containers are all in place.”

  Turning, Doug saw Nick O’Malley’s muscular form sitting beside him. The man seemed much too heavy for the little wheeled chair; it looked as if the chair would collapse under him at any moment.

  “Back from The Cave so soon?” Doug asked.

  O’Malley nodded. “Nobody’s got much of an appetite just now.”

  Doug saw Gordette standing a few paces away. “Bam, when’s the last time you took a break?”

  “I’m okay,” Gordette said, folding his arms over his chest.

  “Go grab a bite to eat,” Doug ordered. “While there’s still time.”

  “I’m okay,” Gordette repeated stolidly.

  “That’s the nuke?” O’Malley asked, pointing to the screen on Doug’s console.

  That’s it.”

  “How soon?”

  “Should hit in twenty-five minutes or less.”

  “What’s Wicksen waiting for?”

  “He knows what he’s doing,” said Doug, wishing he felt as confident as he was trying to sound.

  Then the overhead lights, always dim inside the control center, went off altogether. The display screens wavered and faded, hundreds of electronic eyes blinking, then steadied. A low moaning gasp echoed through the rock-walled chamber. “It’s okay!” Doug yelled. “Wicksen’s powering up the beam gun. We expected this. The auxiliary power system’s cut in.

  Still he felt the cold hand of fear clutching his innards.

  “Power’s up to ninety percent,” said the physicist.

  Wicksen, bending over the makeshift control board inside the buried emergency shelter, saw a swathe of green lights interspersed with a handful of yellows. No reds, he told himself. So far, so good.

  “Power to max,” he said quietly.

  There was no whine of generators spinning up, no vibration from powerful machinery. Just the low background hum of electrical gadgetry in the cramped, round-ceilinged little shelter. The five of them had taken off their helmets; there’d been no time to get out of the suits entirely. Nor any inclination to do so.

  Two red lights suddenly glowered at Wicksen. “Main buss has cut out,” he said, tension edging into his voice.

  “On it,” said the only woman among his assistants. I’ll have to run a diagnostic.”

  “No time. Go to the backup.”

  “Right.”

  The red lights remained, but a new pair of greens lit up. Wicksen glanced at the countdown clock: fourteen minutes remaining until impact.

  “How’s the pointing system?” he asked.

  “It’s tracking okay. Hardly any movement, the bird’s coming right down our throats.”

  “Makes life simpler,” Wicksen murmured.

  “Magnets are at full power.”

  He nodded, blew out a breath through puffed cheeks, then leaned his right index finger on the firing button.

  A multitude of red lights sprang up on the board.

  “What the hell?”

  “Main buss shorted out!” the woman shouted. “Backup’s malfunctioned!”

  Wicksen swore under his breath. Murphy’s law. Turning toward her, he saw that her face look agonized.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked calmly. Twelve minutes to impact.

  “I don’t know,” she said, voice jittery, as she stared at the instruments in front of her.

  Three minutes later Wicksen had satisfied himself that the main buss itself was functioning properly.

  “It’s the wiring,” he said, reaching for his helmet. “The connections must have come loose.”

  “That can’t be!” said the man who had done the wiring job.

  “Can’t be anything else,” said Wicksen simply, as he pulled his helmet over his head.

  “You’re not going out there! With the nuke less than ten minutes from detonation!”

  “Somebody’s got to.”

  “Let me,” said the man who had done the wiring. “It’s my responsibility.”

  “We’ll both go,” said Wicksen.

  Colonel Giap had taken the precaution of having the seven suicide volunteers placed in the same tractor with him. He wanted them under his eye; he was not willing to take chances that such fanatics might strike off on their own once the action started.

  The American woman especially intrigued him. She was not young, and she certainly did not seem fanatical. Giap wondered what could have happened in her life to make her want to embrace death.

  So he asked her. There was scarcely any privacy in the tractor, crowded with troops and the seven volunteers, all in spacesuits, but once they were safely parked in the lee of Alphonsus’s ringwall mountains, Giap clambered down onto the dusty regolith soil for a quick inspection of his vehicles.

  Once satisfied that all the vehicles were properly positioned and there were no problems with the troops—except the usual complaints of soldiers everywhere—he returned to his own tractor. Instead of re-entering it, however, he ordered the American woman outside.

  She came without a murmur and stood before him, an anonymous, sexless figure in a white spacesuit. Giap connected their two helmets with a communications wire, so they could speak without using their suit radios.

  “I want to know,” he said without preamble, “how reliable you and your comrades are going to be.”

  Without hesitation she replied, “Faithful unto death. That is our motto.”

  “A motto is one thing. Soon we will be in action.”

  This time her response took a few moments. At last she said, “We are pledged to give our lives to the cause of eliminating the scourge of nanotechnology. When the time comes, we will not hesitate to act.”

  “I’m certain,” Giap said. “What concerns me is—what if the time does not come?”

  “Does not… I don’t understand.”

  “Soon a pair of missiles will knock out Moonbase’s entire electrical generation capability. They will be forced to surrender, or die within a few hours from lack of air to breath. There will be no need for you to sacrifice yourselves.”

  “Oh, I see. You want to know if we will obey your orders.”

  There will be no need to blow up Moonbase—and yourselves.”

  “If all goes as you have planned.”

  “Well?”

  “You have nothing to fear,” she said easily enough. “Our pledge includes that promise to obey the authority over us. For the time being,
that authority is you, Colonel.”

  All well and good, Giap thought. But still he had no inkling of why this woman—or any of her comrades—was willing to throw away her life.

  As if she could read his mind, she said, “You are wondering why I am not married and mothering children, or building a career for myself.”

  “Yes,” he confessed. “Why have you volunteered to kill yourself?”

  “Because I want to die.”

  “But why?”

  Without hesitation she began to tell him: of her abused childhood, of her disastrous first marriage, of her slowly evolving awareness that she was homosexual, of her second husband’s violence, of the years she spent in mental hospitals, of the casual rapes by hospital staff and the even more casual applications of mind-altering drugs in an effort to ‘rehabilitate’ her.

  Giap wanted to vomit long before she was anywhere near finished. He realized why she thought quick death preferable to continued life.

  To interrupt her, he looked at the watch on his wrist pad. Stopping her unbroken flow of misery, he said, “We must return to the tractor now. The missiles will be reaching their targets soon.”

  “It’s the wiring, all right,” said Wicksen’s assistant. “My fault, Wix. I did a damned sloppy job. I was so rushed—”

  “No time for that now,” Wicksen said. Pointing to the equipment still strewn on the ground around the mass driver, he said, “We’ve only got a few minutes to get it fixed.”

  The man seemed to freeze for several heartbeats, standing immobile in his spacesuit. Then he said only, “Right.” And started for the equipment.

  It’s not going to do any good, Wicksen thought. We can’t get this wiring repaired and then power up the magnets again and get everything running in ten minutes. It’s just not enough time. But he bent to his task, forcing all other thoughts out of his mind.

  Until his earphones screeched, “Here it comes!”

  He jerked up, saw nothing but the looming dark hulk of the mass driver. Then something jarred him off his feet. He sailed like a feather, floating, floating, until he slammed painfully into the ground.

  He saw stars flashing, then nothing but darkness.