Armstrong Station

by D. M. Pruden

  “You did that very well, Doctor Melanie,” he says in a thick accent. “Catch your breath before you go on.”

  “Where am I going?”

  He points to the building set into the side of the crater’s opposite rim. From this vantage point, it looks like a modern version of the buildings at Petra I’d learned about in one of my history classes back at the academy.

  Vostok joins us sooner than I expected. He either left immediately after me, or, more likely, traversed the distance more efficiently than I—and the son-of-a-bitch isn’t even breathing hard.

  He exchanges words with his man before tapping me on my arm. “Are you ready?”

  Realizing how ridiculous the question is, I say, “Fuck yeah; let’s do this.”

  Without any further consideration, I bound over the edge.

  Two strides down the slope, the ground around me comes alive. Mini eruptions of rock and dust blow up. Panicking, I lose my footing and trip forward.

  I tumble down the slope until I halt in a graceless thump of dust at the base of the scree.

  Dizzy from my fall, I try to scramble to my feet, only to teeter as my surroundings spin about me.

  Desperate for a purchase, I lie on my back and dig my fingers into the loose gravel. It does nothing to stop the whirling of my world.

  Realizing I need a visual anchor, I lift my head to search for the horizon, obscured by the settling dusty cloud I created.

  “Melanie!” Vostok’s disembodied voice sounds desperate over the comm. “Melanie, answer me if you can!”

  “I’m here; still in one piece but—”

  “Stay where you are and remain still. Do not move.”

  My mind races in search of a reason. “Why?”

  “Because the dust you kicked up is settling, and he will soon be able to see you again.”

  My heart tries to pound its way out of my chest.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “The sniper who just tried to kill you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “Holy fuck!”

  Somebody’s pot shots at me missed, but I’d been moving. Now I am flat on my back and an easy target.

  Or I will soon be, once the settling dust gives the sniper a clear shot.

  My head has stopped spinning, and I risk turning enough to try to find the beanstalk tower, which should be poking up over the rim of the crater. I can just discern its shape over the small scree I created during my fall. Maybe, if I remain still, Willis might not see me to take another shot at me and maybe hit me this time.

  At least, I imagine it is Willis. More likely it is one of his hired henchmen.

  That sobering thought makes me realize just how foolish I was to set off after Chloe. It isn’t like nobody tried to warn me off.

  Shit!

  My gaze falls to my arm, still splayed out, unmoving as per Vostok’s instruction. It is covered in the grey lunar dust, almost blending with the monochromatic ground. A quick glance confirms that most of my suit is similarly coated.

  I wonder if I might be able to camouflage myself in the stuff and risk a kick of my feet to raise another small cloud. A second later, a small geyser of dirt flies up only a metre from me.

  Idiot!

  Oskar told me to play dead. Now the sniper knows I am still alive.

  “Melanie, are you shot?”

  “N…no. I’m sorry; you told me not to move, and I fucked up.”

  “No, that’s okay, as long as you’re not hit.”

  “No, he missed. I don’t think he can see me.”

  “Ivan cannot tell where the sniper is shooting from.”

  “Shit!”

  “Yes, it is a problem, but you gave me an idea for a solution, if you are up to it.”

  I get the distinct impression I am not going to like his next words. “What do you have planned?”

  “When he shoots, there is a muzzle flash from his gun. Ivan identified the floor it is coming from but does not know which window.”

  “He needs more data,” I say, realizing the plan. “How many shots does he need to see?”

  There is a short pause as Vostok confers with Ivan in Russian.

  “Two.”

  “I was sort of hoping for a lower number than that.”

  “I want you to kick up some more dust. After that, when I tell you, run as fast as you can to the building. Ivan will give you cover fire, as will my men who are waiting there for you.”

  “And you’re sure he won’t be able to shoot me while you’re shooting at him?”

  “This should work...if he is the only sniper.”

  “Jesus Christ, Oskar!”

  “I am sorry, but it is the best we can do. Are you ready?”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Realizing there is no alternative, I say, “Tell me when to start.”

  I was supposed to weave and bob.

  Vostok specifically told me what to do.

  When he explained the plan to me, in the moment I thought that weaving and bobbing while I ran was probably a good idea.

  Yet after arriving at my destination, I look back at my footprints, and it is obvious that I ran in a straight line.

  What a fucking idiot!

  Unable to believe what a colossal moron I am, I check my suit’s pressure gauge for signs of leakage through undiscovered bullet holes. The number on the readout remains steady at one standard atmosphere, and I heave a relieved sigh.

  Recall of my frantic ten-second dash—or however long it took me—is sketchy at best. All I remember seeing were the flashes from the gun muzzles of Vostok’s men as they peppered the side of the distant tower with bullets. My only thought was to keep putting one foot in front of the other and not trip while doing so.

  After I catch my breath and calm down, I realize that the gunfire has not let up. In silence, the lads continue to fire upward, and I wonder if they were waiting for a chance to shoot some shit up and simply don’t want to stop.

  Then, when Vostok pops through the entrance, guns cease shooting.

  He walks straight to me, his headlamp shining brightly in my face, and rests a hand on my shoulder. “Were you hit?”

  I am glad my visor hides the warm glow radiating from my face. “No, I seem to be intact.”

  With no mention of my attempted suicide by stupidity, he turns to address his men, this time in Standard so that I can understand too.

  They proceed in groups of three, separated by a few seconds, into the structure’s interior. Vostok sidles next to me. “I will accompany you from this point. We go last. Do you still have your gun?”

  Having forgotten about it, I pat down my waist until my hand falls on the holstered weapon. I pull it out and awkwardly hold it up to demonstrate I’m not entirely incompetent. His hand gently lowers my arm. “Keep it pointed down until you intend to use it.”

  “I’ve never shot one of these things before, Oskar...”

  “Hopefully you will have no cause today, but it is best to be prepared. If something happens, do not hesitate. Your life may depend on it.”

  I don’t know what to say. I am used to saving lives, not endangering them, but he is right. I need to grow some gonads and focus on survival.

  “Did Ivan shoot the sniper?” I ask as we begin to walk.

  Vostok chuckles. “He claims he did. We will verify if that is true when we arrive there.”

  Given the firepower unleashed on the shooter, I find it difficult to imagine how he’ll be able to determine whose bullet was the fatal one should we find a body.

  A Russian-speaking voice comes over the radio.

  “The advance team made it through,” Vostok explains. “There was no damage to the tunnel and nobody waiting for them on the other side.”

  “Maybe there was only the one gunman,” I say, not attempting to hide the hope in my voice.

  “Perhaps,” he replies grimly. “It is also possible that there are more, and they are regrouping in a more defensible position.”

  “When
we get through the tunnel, what happens? There was only one light visible in the tower, but it could have been a decoy.”

  “Perhaps it was a deception, but I do not think so. There was no way for Willis to know we were coming.”

  I don’t want to ask what measures he took to ensure that, but I am sure they involved bloodshed. Oskar, I am learning, can be more cold-blooded than I realized.

  “Still, if it was a ruse, the building is enormous. He could hold Chloe anywhere,” I say.

  “No, much of the structure is exposed to vacuum. There are only a handful of possible places he could survive for any length of time, most of them being on the upper levels.”

  We exit the tunnel and continue down a corridor lined with doorways. Many of them are labeled, and it appears that we walk through what was once the mechanical facility. Many of the entrances that still have doors on them show signs of forced entry. This place is obviously a prime source for scavenged machinery and parts; probably the reason Vostok seems to know so much about it.

  “How are we going to get to those levels?”

  His answer is to push open a doorway to reveal a stairwell.

  I nod to myself, embarrassed by my dumb question.

  Walking past him, I begin the trek up the stairs, grateful that we are in lunar gravity. It has been some time since I saw the inside of a gym.

  We wordlessly climb for the next hour, stopping at each landing until the team searching that floor declares it unoccupied. Then they sprint past us up the stairwell to become the lead group and repeat the whole search procedure. It is tedious for me and dangerous for the teams. I find myself wishing Vostok brought more men, if only to speed up the process.

  As we reach the landing for the twenty-sixth level, we pause to await the all-clear from the team searching it.

  One minute becomes five; then ten. Vostok barks something over the radio and shifts his grip on his gun as seconds tick by without any report coming from the sweep team.

  Two of the advance groups descend the stairs to join us on the landing.

  After a silent exchange of hand signals between them, Vostok leads me down the steps to the first safety landing. Once there, he points to my pistol, obediently still pointed at the floor, and signals me to raise it.

  I swallow and force my shaking hand to lift, careful not to point it at Oskar or any of his men. He signals that I should remain in this spot then goes back up the stairs to rejoin his men as they prepare to rush the door.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  After Vostok and his men rush the door and disappear inside, I am alone in the stairwell.

  Relieved I was not invited to participate in their heroic charge, I am still extremely uneasy being by myself in a strange, dark, abandoned ruin. I grip the pistol tightly, grateful I brought it. I hardly have any knowledge of how to use it, and I never thought to ask for a basic shooting lesson, though for the life of me I can’t imagine when that might have occurred.

  Of course, the moment I think of that, I regret it.

  To this point, I’ve been too busy to notice the familiar prompts my body is sending me. It has been eight hours since our departure from Armstrong, and I realize I am hungry and need to take a piss.

  The hunger I can ignore, but the pressure on my bladder becomes the only thing I can focus on.

  The few times I’ve worn a spacesuit, I was reminded that most of them are designed for prolonged use and can easily reprocess my urine if necessary. At the time, the whole process sounded disgusting, and I was grateful that none of my excursions had required me to test the system.

  But now...

  As much as I want, I can’t bring myself to pee in the suit. Standing, exposed on a stairwell when anyone might come bursting through the doorway threatening to kill me...well, being shot while taking a piss is not how I want to go.

  Unable to distract myself or ignore the urge, I decide I must do something.

  Oskar told me that these upper floors are mostly intact and still pressurized. His men conveniently just cleared the level below this. It all sounds too tempting. I continue down to the next landing and, after a moment of sober consideration, dismiss all caution and go through the doorway.

  Once through the door, I am faced with another locked one and realize it is part of the airlock system. Locating the control, I activate the pump and wait for the green light that signals all is ready. When it comes on, the inner door unlatches and opens easily.

  The interior is dark, and I can’t locate a light switch. Realizing that I cannot remove my helmet without turning off the attached headlamp, I settle for opening my visor.

  The frigid air smells dusty and stale, and the lazy fog from my breath floats in front of me before it quickly dissipating. My eyes, nose, and throat feel like sandpapered wood as any drop of moisture in them vanishes into the parched air.

  I wish that my bladder’s contents would evaporate just as easily; it would save me the effort of finding a toilet and removing the suit.

  I shine my headlamp about, surveying the scene of abandoned work cubicles, many of them displaying pictures of loved ones and other personal items. The place looks like everyone went for lunch and never returned. This must have been an administrative office for the space elevator while it still operated. Oskar said that many of the other floors are apartments, restaurants, and hotel suites.

  Bodily urges driving me, I move past the desks, searching for the water closet. Just as I began to think I’ll have to use one of the wastebaskets or force myself to test the recycling capacity of my suit, I spot a sign and hurry toward it.

  As I near the door to the toilet, my headlamp flashes across something that doesn’t belong.

  Retracing my steps, I keep scanning my light until it falls on a pair of legs lying on the floor, the upper body vanishing into the darkness. My heart beating in my throat, I shine my lamp up the legs to the torso of a man, face down in the dust. He wears a spacesuit, but his helmet is missing.

  Hurrying to his side, it doesn’t take me long to determine that he is dead or that the cause of his demise was the three bullet holes in him. Rolling the body over, the face of my erstwhile bodyguard, Gregor, greets me. I step back in shock.

  Gregor was in one of the advance search parties. I remember recognizing his garish orange helmet when his team exited this floor as we came up the stairwell.

  Realizing what happened, I stand and frantically play my light about me, searching for any sign of the other two men. After a moment, I spot another body, and as I move toward it, the boot of the third man comes into view.

  Both were shot, and their helmets are missing.

  My heart races as I access my comm to warn Vostok. Static plays in my ears as I switch from one channel to the next.

  “Shit!”

  Whoever murdered these men is obviously masquerading as them. It will be an ideal opportunity for one of them to put a bullet in Vostok’s back.

  I need to warn him.

  As I turn to retrace my steps to the stairwell, an unexpected noise freezes me in place. I turn off my headlamp and remain still, listening.

  A woman’s faint moaning comes from somewhere behind me.

  “Chloe!” It must be her.

  Too late, I realize the possibility that she might not be alone and clamp my mouth shut to listen again.

  Seconds tick by, becoming a minute, then two.

  The moaning repeats, this time more intensely.

  Hearing nothing else that suggests there is anyone else around, I risk turning my light back on. Shakily raising my gun, I creep in the direction of the sounds. I pause frequently to wait for her to make another noise so I can home in on her location.

  After several agonizing moments, I locate an open door, through which shines a dim light.

  I pause to listen, and when the sounds of suffering come clearly from within, I foolishly charge toward the doorway.

  The sparsely furnished room is dimly lit by an ancient lamp set on desk. Opposite i
t, on the other side of the chamber, is a single cot, and curled up on it lies a slight figure.

  “Chloe!” I rush to her side, pulling off my gloves and helmet. Kneeling beside her, I press my hand to her clammy forehead then check for her weak pulse.

  Groggy, she responds to the sound of my voice, opening her eyes weakly. There is a spark of recognition in them, and she tries to smile. Then her eyes roll back and her head falls to the pillow.

  My own heart races as I check her pupil response.

  A weak moan comes from her, and she pulls her legs up.

  I undo my suit and reach in my pocket to find the blister pack Oskar gave me. Helping her to a sitting position, I try to rouse her enough to take one of the pills.

  She gags and coughs it up to fall to the floor and vanish under the cot. Undeterred, I go to the desk with the remaining pill. Using the butt of the gun handle, I grind it into as fine a powder as I can. After carefully gathering it into my hand, I return to Chloe.

  As gently as possible, I force her mouth open. Then, using my finger and hoping she won’t bite it off, I apply the powder to the inside of her cheek and hope she swallows it.

  Administering it this way will not be as effective as if she’d swallowed the pill whole, but she is in desperate shape. My hope is that the little I can get into her will tide her over until we can transport her to a medical facility.

  I almost cheer when she swallows, and I repeat the process until the powder is gone. She responds almost immediately, drifting off into a deep sleep.

  Encouraged by my success, I drop to my knees and shine my helmet lamp under the cot until I locate the dropped pill. Returning to the desk, I grind it up as well and administer the last of it to Chloe. I’ve bought her maybe four hours, assuming the means of getting the drug into her is even half as effective as simply swallowing the entire pill.

  There being nothing more I can do for her, I turn my attention to finding a way out.

  Scanning the room, there is no sign of the spacesuit she wore when brought to this place. It makes perfect sense for Willis to take it when he abandoned her here with her guards. Given her condition, they obviously weren’t concerned about leaving her alone while they took off to ambush Vostok.