by D. M. Pruden
“Yeah, sorry about this.”
“What are you talking about, Mel? Do you think I blame you for this pickle?”
“Well, helping Chloe was my idea.”
He shakes his head. “None of us think that way; neither does Chambers, despite all his tough-guy talk. Helping her out was the right thing.”
“Yeah, I just don’t know why doing the right thing always seems to come with such a heavy price. I don’t think it’s worth the bother.”
“So, what are you going to do? Not help people who need it? I don’t think that’s why you became a doctor.”
I chuckle mirthlessly. “I got offered a lucky break and took it; it was either medicine or engineering.”
He screws up his face like he caught a whiff of a foul smell. “You couldn’t be an engineer.”
“Hey, I had the smarts to do it—”
“Has nothing to do with brains, Mel. You’re just too nice to be one.”
I raise my eyebrows. I’ve been called many things in my life, but that is not one of them. The few engineers I’ve met were a little odd, but most of them seemed decent.
Schmaltz grins. “My old man was one, and he was the biggest asshole I ever knew.”
“At least you knew your father. Mine took off before I was born.” I normally don’t share anything about my childhood; I dislike the pitying looks the story earns me. The odd time it spills out is when I am deep into a bottle and feeling maudlin.
I need to change the topic. “What will you do when we arrive at Terra?”
“I dunno. Things always need fixing. How about you?”
I shake my head. I came to Luna to escape my life on Earth. There is nothing for me on that rock, but at least I’ll have a better chance of seeing my next birthday there than if I run anywhere else.
“You’re wrong, you know,” he says.
His comment rouses me from my self-indulgent thoughts. “About what?”
“Helping people is worth the bother. Growing up in the belt, you learn quickly that none of us could survive out there without a hand from our neighbours. Most people from Earth, or Luna or one of the colonies don’t understand just how precarious life can be. Everyone is too busy trying to find a way to lie and cheat and screw the next guy to get ahead. Not enough people care.”
I stare at him, not exactly sure how or if I should respond.
He frowns and his voice takes on a determined tone. “You care, Mel. You don’t want to admit you have a heart, but you do. I know it’s killing you to leave Chloe to that Willis guy, but there’s nothing wrong with choosing survival. I’ve worked with you long enough to know that if there was even a small chance to help her, you’d take it. Just because you can’t do something doesn’t make you less of a good person. Sometimes we draw a winning hand, and sometimes we don’t. You’ll be able to help more people if you’re alive.”
“But it still sucks.”
Working as an emergency care doctor during the last year of the war, I lost patients; far too many. I learned to accept the limitations of what I can do, but that doesn’t make it hurt less. The problem is, I am turning tail and running instead of even trying to find Chloe.
I stare at my cold coffee then put the cup on the counter. “Tell Chambers to leave without me if I’m not back on time.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Mel? I didn’t mean that you should stay...”
“I know, but I have to do this, or I won’t be able to look at myself in the mirror.”
Schmaltz puts his cup down beside mine. “Then I’m coming with you.”
“No, you won’t. Chambers and the others need this ship to be in top shape if you’re going to make a run for it. You’re the only guy who can ensure that happens. That is your good deed, Schmaltzy; helping them survive.”
Before he can overcome his stunned silence, I turn on my heel and head for the airlock.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I find Oskar Vostok in his usual haunt. He and six of his men are gathered around a table, checking a collection of firearms arrayed on it. He doesn’t seem surprised by my arrival, affording me a cursory glance before returning his attention to the weapon in his hands.
“Doctor Melanie,” he says without looking up, “I was informed that you and your shipmates were to depart in the morning.”
“They’re going. I’m not. I’m here to help look for Chloe.”
He pauses and studies me, one eyebrow arched. Then, after a moment’s consideration, he shakes his head and continues to disassemble and check the gun. “It is too dangerous. You should not be here.”
“So, you know where she’s being held?”
Oskar smiles but does not look up. “Of course. Willis is holding her at the beanstalk.”
“What the hell is that?”
“The old space elevator.”
I frown. “There is no space elevator.”
He nods as he places the weapon down and selects another. “The first colonists built it, but it hasn’t been used for a hundred years.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
He looks up at me. “It was destroyed during the war. Willis is hiding in the ruins of the surface facility at the southern pole.”
“Is Chloe with him?”
Oskar shrugs.
My frown deepens as I turn my attention to the weapons arrayed on the tabletop. “If you’re not sure she’s there, then what’s going on?”
“We are going to kill Willis, and the woman, if she still lives.”
“What? I can understand killing Willis, but why Chloe?”
“He will move against us officially by ordering the Morality Police to raid my bases, or unofficially by betraying us to Cabot after the woman’s nanites kill her.”
Apparently, I’m not the only one to figure out that part of Willis’s plan.
“But if we rescue her, then Cabot will be in your debt,” I say.
“Nyet. If she lives and explains all that happened to her father, he will come to exact his vengeance upon us. If she dies at the hand of Willis, he can still inform Cabot of our involvement. They both must die before that can happen.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Oskar, please...”
“You are in much danger. There is a chance we are too late. You should return to your ship and depart in the morning.”
“But you can’t murder her. What has she ever done to you?”
“It is the way of things, Doctor Melanie.”
He turns away and gives an order to his men. They begin to gather up the firearms. My mind races, desperately churning for some way to change his mind.
“Oskar, wait! I purchased her from you; she’s my property, and I don’t wish her to be harmed.”
Vostok glares at me. His men stop in their tracks and turn to watch us. Annoyed, he barks at them, and they resume what they were doing.
After a very long silence, just as I begin to think I’ve gone too far, he says, “You will assume responsibility for her actions?”
I nod. “If Cabot comes after you, I’m dead too. I’ll ensure she says nothing about you.”
“How will you do this?”
I scowl, and my voice hardens. “That is of no concern to you.”
A smile slowly grows behind Vostok’s black beard. “If she betrays us, I will kill you myself before Cabot can. This is understood by you?”
I straighten my back and puff out my chest. My voice quavers as I reply, “I understand.”
He picks up a handgun from the table to hold out to me. “You will come to ensure her silence.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and push the pistol away. “No guns for me.”
He presses it into my hands. Picking up the remaining weapons, he follows his men to the exit.
“Oskar, wait!”
He turns, scowling.
“If we find Chloe, she’ll need some antidote for the nanites in her system. Do you have more?”
His frown deepens as he stares at me
. Returning to his desk, he opens a drawer and removes a blister pack to toss to me.
I catch it clumsily. It contains only two doses.
“It is all there is,” says Vostok before I can ask. “If there is nothing else, Doctor, we must go now.”
He walks brusquely to the doorway without turning to see if I’m following.
I stuff the packet into my coat pocket and hurry after him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Vostok’s suborbital hopper settles to the lunar surface. I peer out the window into pitch darkness, shocked that the stars are gone. Slowly, as dust blown up by our landing jets dissipates, pinpricks of light poke through the black. The interior of the ship is as dark as outside.
A shadow shaped like Oskar emerges from the cockpit, illuminated from behind by the instrument lights. He removes something from a locker and approaches me.
“Here, put this on.”
He passes me an EVA suit and helmet.
I rise from the acceleration couch and pull on the bulky garment, trying to give the impression it is something I do often. The rustle of fabric somewhere behind me in the dimmed cabin tells me his men are already donning theirs.
“What’s the plan?” I ask.
“We’ve set down on the dark side of the terminator. The beanstalk base is 150 kilometres away, at Shackleton. We will take jet bikes most of the way and hike in for the final kilometre.”
“Why didn’t you park closer?”
I can’t see the smile in his voice when he answers. “We wish to surprise Willis. You can ride a bike?”
I grab up my helmet. “Don’t worry about me.”
When we are suited up, the hopper is depressurized, and the door opens. We file outside and bound down the ramp like kangaroos. I am the last to descend, still feeling awkward in the bulky spacesuit. Oskar’s men have already removed the small hover cycles from the storage compartment. Though they move like a small, organized platoon, they certainly don’t look the part. Their spacesuits are a motley, multicoloured collection that they’ve scrounged, bought, or—more likely—stolen.
I select a bike and mount it, recalling how it operates. The ones I had occasion to ride when I lived on Terra made the devil’s own noise, which won’t be a problem out here. The only way I can tell it is running is from the vibration of the saddle. Under other circumstances, I might look forward to enjoying the sensation shaking up my lady parts during the trip.
After a communications check, Vostok takes off in a cloud of dust, followed quickly by the others. Gregor, in his garish orange helmet, has been appointed my babysitter and waits for me to rev up the engine and tentatively follow the herd. I am grateful for his patience as I work up the courage to open the throttle and hurry to catch up with the rest of them.
The terrain rushes past as we skim a few metres above the surface, sunlit ridges becoming more distinct as we approach the terminator. As we emerge into the dawn light, Oskar leads us over a rim and into the depths of a crater.
In silence, we jet along the brightly lit floor before passing abruptly into the shadow cast by the crater rim far ahead of us. Without slowing, we whiz by ice mining robots and automated processing facilities, oblivious to our presence. Flying up the steep slope, we crest the edge of the crater and dive again into another one.
At one point, when I am sure I won’t crash into something, I glance up at the remains of the beanstalk as we draw closer. The towering structure’s smooth surface glimmers in the sunlight. It rises majestically overhead, tapering elegantly as it climbs. At its apex, where it should continue toward the stars, an ugly jagged terminus testifies to the destruction visited upon it.
We drop into another crater and proceed to the shaded opposite wall, where Vostok signals for us to halt.
In radio silence, we dismount. Oskar and his men remove the firearms from the racks on the back of the bikes and began bounding up the sloping crater wall. I briefly consider forgetting the gun I was issued but reconsider when I remember my last encounter with Willis.
There was something barely contained behind his demeanour. A terrible capacity for violence I’ve seen before in other, dangerous men. If it comes down to a conflict, he will not hesitate to kill me. As much as I abhor violence, I dislike the idea of dying more. I pull my gun from the rack and follow the others up the side of the crater.
On catching up with them near the crest, I find them all lying on their bellies, studying something in the distance. Crawling the last few metres, I slip in next to Vostok and poke my head over the rim.
A little over a kilometre away, the ruins of the enormous base of the sky elevator rise from the lunar surface like a surreal mirage.
Oskar studies the scene through binoculars pressed up to his helmet’s visor. After a few moments, he hands them to me.
I fumble with them until I find the correct placement to see anything.
Detritus from the attack that destroyed the beanstalk lies scattered about. At first the facility appears abandoned, but then I see a light in a window, twenty storeys up.
“Willis,” I say. “It has to be him.”
Vostok retrieves the binoculars from me and resumes his study of the building. “It is him.”
He lowers the instrument and stiffly turns his upper body to face me. “This is the most dangerous part. We will all be vulnerable. Willis will be able to pick us off. Perhaps you should reconsider.”
I turn to look again at the ruins and swallow the growing lump in my throat. “Fuck that. I’m a small target.”
Vostok chuckles. He waves to one of his men, the smallest one who carries the largest weapon I’ve ever seen up the side of the hill. He crawls forward to set up a short tripod and fix the long barrel of the gun to it.
“Ivan will keep watch and give us cover fire, if necessary.”
I warily study the slight man who barely outweighs me.
Sensing my unasked question, Oskar says, “Ivan was a sniper during the war. He had one hundred and fifty confirmed kills.”
“One hundred and fifty-six,” says the small man in a thick accent.
Vostok chuckles again. “He likes to correct me. Here there is no wind, so perhaps he won’t miss anyone today.”
Ivan says something in Russian that I assume is not polite.
I return my gaze to the vast plain that stretches between us and the complex. Perhaps we’ll be able avoid detection by dashing between the bits of wreckage that clutter the landscape, but the more I consider how exposed we’ll be, the less convinced I am by my earlier bravado.
Vostok nudges me and redirects my attention to a small crater, about three hundred metres to our left. A row of landing platforms line up neatly along its floor, partly obscured by debris and accumulating dust. Not far from them, built into the sun-exposed side of the rim, stand the remains of a building with a road connecting it to the landing field.
“We are going there. It is the shipping and receiving facility. Tunnels connect it to the complex.”
“Are they still intact?”
“We shall soon discover that.”
He waves to the group of men to our left. One of them clambers over the ridge and runs the twenty metres to the nearest piece of wreckage between us and the beanstalk. After pausing behind it, he dashes to the next, then repeats the process until he arrives at the other crater’s rim.
Ivan does not follow his comrade’s progress. His helmet’s face plate is glued to the scope of his weapon, pointed at the tower in the distance.
Another man follows the first, repeating a similar pattern around different bits of debris, finally joining his companion.
Following a brief pause, the first man disappears over the crater’s rim.
Unable to follow his progress, time seems to stop as my attention remains riveted to the landing field and the building beyond it. When he fails to reappear after what I believe should be long enough for him to walk to the front door, my heart sinks.
Just as I imagine him, lying ou
t there, gasping for air from a gaping hole in his helmet or suit courtesy of one of Willis’s snipers, his voice crackles over my receiver in Russian.
Rapidly, one after another, the remaining men repeat the same mad dash, each one taking his turn as watchman on the far ridge as the companion he replaces hurries to join the others.
Finally, only Vostok, Ivan, and I remain.
I try to swallow around my dry tongue. “It looks like nobody is watching.”
“You go next,” says Vostok.
“Me?”
“Or you can remain here with Ivan, but please make your choice quickly.”
Shit! As I watch his men scurry across the dusty plain like ants, somewhere in the back of my mind I know I’m expected to follow them.
My mouth dry, I crawl to the rim.
Pausing to roll to my back, I slide on my butt down the slope. Reaching the base, I glance back up the hill but can’t see Vostok or Ivan.
After three quick breaths, I push myself to my feet and run as fast as I can toward the nearest obstruction. Even though it is only fifteen metres away, it might as well be a kilometre. With every loping stride, I imagine Willis, returning from a lunch break, picking up his rifle and spotting my clumsy progress. In my mind I see him smiling grimly while he lines me up in his sights.
My pulse bangs out a drum roll in my ears as I arrive at my objective. Desperately, I glance through my fogged visor in the direction I came. Unable to locate Ivan or Vostok, my imagination goes into overdrive. Did Willis finally see them and pick them off while everyone’s attention was on me? Realizing it is my vantage point that obscures them, I try to slow my breathing and concentrate on my next objective.
The next mad dash seems to take less time, as does each one that follows. By the time I join the man guarding the edge of the crater, my blinding panic has diminished to mild terror.
The man places his hand on my shoulder, and for a horrifying moment, I expect him to pass his rifle to me to relieve him.
