Walking on the Sea of Clouds
Page 12
“Alright, damn you.” Van lifted his right foot off the dusty plain; his knee popped and cracked and complained. He counted off five seconds on his helmet chronometer and gingerly put his foot back down.
“Now the other one.”
Van took a few stubborn breaths. He set his foot firmly on the ground and gradually balanced, keeping his quads and glutes as tight as he could to avoid locking out his knee. Another final, deep inhalation and he lifted his left foot. Even at one-sixth of his weight, he had to suppress a grunt. New sweat formed and clung to his face before slowly migrating down into his eyes and ears. He shut his eyes and counted in his head: three seconds, five, ten. He put his left foot back down, and swayed—he reached out to the ladder before he could stop himself.
“I am impressed that you did not pass out,” Oskar said, his light accent coming through thicker than normal.
“I’m waiting until I get in the truck.”
“I am not sure what to do with you—”
“We could shoot him,” Henry said. “Best to shoot a lame horse.”
Van laughed, and regretted doing so. His femur had become a thick, primitive spear with its chipped flint head jammed behind his kneecap.
“I’ll consult with Shay. You may have to return with me, and Henry can continue on with Grace.”
“Just let me get some tape on it, and I’ll be fine. It’s low gravity, Oskar. You’ll see.”
Oskar stood in the same place a moment longer, his face unreadable behind his partially shadowed helmet. Van kept still; he was sure his leg would collapse if he moved very far or very fast. Presently Oskar turned away and with loping, graceful strides headed for the LSOV.
“See you back at the base,” Henry said, and followed behind Oskar.
It took Van five minutes just to climb the ladder into the airlock.
* * *
Grace cycled through the airlock fifteen minutes after Van. He was still in his suit—he’d only been able to get his helmet and gloves off before the relentless pain felled him and he had to medicate himself. Now he sprawled out on the seat/bunk, his leg propped up on two pillows, holding a flask of water and the bottle of 800 milligram Ibuprofen.
“Ranger candy?” Grace asked.
“You betcha,” Van said, and sipped some more water. He studied the bulkhead while Grace stripped out of her suit.
“I thought you were in the Air Force,” Grace said.
“Yeah. I thought about joining the military, but I joined the Air Force instead.”
“So where did you learn about Ranger candy?”
“Honestly, right now I don’t remember. Ranger candy, Ranger pudding—”
“What’s that?”
“I may not even have the name right,” he admitted, “but it’s all the powdered goodness that comes with an MRE—coffee, creamer, sugar—with just enough water to turn it into a slurry.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“I hear it’s even worse when you just dump the packets in your mouth and swish them around with water from your canteen. Probably almost as bad as what passes for coffee up here.” He chanced a look, but Grace’s sweat-soaked T-shirt was too much for him. He closed his eyes and willed the medicine to work its way into his blood.
“You eat anything with that?”
“Huh? No.”
“You’ll give yourself an ulcer. You need to eat a little something, even a couple of crackers, to give that stuff something to bind to. Otherwise it’ll bind to your stomach lining, and you don’t want that.”
“No, I guess I don’t,” he agreed. He flexed his knee, just slightly, and had to grit his teeth. “What I do want is something stronger than this. We have any of that Tylenol with codeine in the truck?”
“No,” Grace said. “That’s locked up back at the base. So, are you going to change?”
Van couldn’t resist. “Why, don’t you like me the way I am?”
“Squelch that. Are you going to get out of your suit?”
“I would if I could.” He opened one eye and Grace was staring at him, hard. “Yes, I will, as soon as these meds work. It hurts too much to do anything else right now.”
She approached, and the way she moved mesmerized him. He forced his eyes down and into the corner of the Turtle where she had dumped her suit.
“Here, I’ll give you a hand.”
Impulses waged a ferocious battle within him, enough that the fray distracted him from Grace’s hands and even from the pain. His groin reluctantly ceded control to his brain, just in time to save him from an embarrassing display once he was down to his skivvies.
“Jeez, I hope I don’t stink as bad as you do, Van,” Grace said as she hooked both their suits to miniature ventilation hoses to dry them out a little.
She was right; he was a ball of sweat and human dirt, still vaguely in human shape. Vaguely human because his knee looked quite alien: swollen to cantaloupe size, the skin so red it almost radiated heat.
“I think I need an ice pack,” he said.
“Way ahead of you.” She was already kneading one of the chemical packs. They didn’t have many of them, and Van couldn’t remember how much they cost. He assumed it would be a lot; he’d find out when they took it out of his pay. She handed him the rapidly cooling gel pack and a towel.
“Thanks, Grace, I appreciate it.” He laid the towel across his knee so the ice pack wouldn’t freeze his skin and strapped the pack in position, then lay back on the bunk and sighed. “I think I’m going to take Oskar up on his rest period. Reckon I’ll have to build a brace if the swelling don’t go down by then.”
Van chanced a look at Grace and caught her in profile—an altogether pleasant sight, and almost too much for him in his fatigued state. She lay down on the other bunk and thankfully drew one of the dark blue blankets over herself.
* * *
Van woke up before Grace, and because of Grace: that is, because of the dream he had of Grace in her wet T-shirt. He stole a glance at her, thankful her blanket covered her most alluring parts, then dug with one hand into his bag by the side of the bunk. By touch he found and retrieved his flexi-viewer. He rolled toward the bulkhead as best he could—about a third of the way before his knee, no longer cold but still with the ice pack strapped to it, screamed “Stop”—and scrolled through pictures of Barbara.
“Sorry, babe,” he whispered, and winked at a great picture of Barbara laughing at her 30th birthday party. That was three years ago, and today, after six years of marriage, she was more beautiful in his mind than in the picture. The lighting washed out some of her freckles and made her hair more orange than its usual red, but really highlighted her smile. He couldn’t wait to hold her in his arms.
The radio crackled. “Turtle, Turtle, this is Rocky, over.”
Van wondered if he had fallen back asleep and was dreaming nonsense. The radio call repeated, and Grace said, “Who the hell is Rocky?”
Van switched on the microphone above his head. “Last caller, say again.”
“Hey, Van, wake up!” Henry Crafts said. “Time to go. How’s your knee?”
Van rubbed grit out of his eyes. “Okay, Henry, we’re up. The knee—” he looked down and flexed it enough to experience a fraction of the pain it had to offer. He considered lying and saying he was fine, but he couldn’t do that to Henry. “The knee’s bigger than it should be, about the size of a grapefruit, and hurts like the Devil’s jabbing it with his pitchfork, but I’ll live. I was able to sleep, and I should be able to wrap it up enough to go on it.”
“Glad to hear it. We heard from Shay a little bit ago. He said it was your call whether you’d press on to Faustini or head back. Oskar figured you’d do just about anything rather than turn tail and run home, so he’s going through the final preflight before he warms up the engines. Unless you decide to swap, we need you to get out of the way so we can head back to Mercator. We’ll be ready in a half hour or so.”
“Thanks, I think. Grace is running our pre-departure checklist over
here, too.” Grace was actually holding her arm over her eyes, and gave Van a rude gesture. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t press on from here—I’ll be able to rest the knee while we drive.
“Hey, while we’re sitting here chatting, who’s Rocky?”
Henry’s laughter crackled in the speaker. “That was in Shay’s message, too. Oskar’d messaged him that we named this place the Halfway House and named the LVN the Turtle, so Shay sent back that the LSOV should be named ‘The Flying Squirrel.’”
Grace shook her head, and Van keyed the mic. “I don’t get it,” he said.
Henry radioed, “Look it up on the ’Net, it’s some antique cartoon Shay likes.”
Van shrugged. His taste ran to immersive 3-D anime, none of which was about flying squirrels, and Shay was younger than he was. But accounting for taste was always ill-advised. After all, Shay played solitaire with real cards.
Van shook his head and rubbed his eyes again. “Roger that, Henry. Have a safe trip.” He switched off the mic. Grace lay still, almost as if she had fallen asleep again, on the other side of the crew cabin. “Want me to drive, Grace?”
“No, I’m up,” she said, even though she wasn’t. “I’m running the checklist in my mind.”
“Wow, that sounds like something I would say.”
Grace looked at him, and little creases formed above her nose. “It does, doesn’t it? That’s not good. Okay, I’m really up now.” She sat up, and Van scrolled through more pictures on his viewer while Grace tidied her bunk area and gathered her toiletries. On her way to the latrine, she tossed him two Ace bandages and a roll of reusable cling tape.
When Grace came out, Van had wrapped his knee as best he could. It wasn’t supported very well, but it would do for the time being.
“Do we have any athletic tape in the kit?” he asked.
Grace rummaged. “No, don’t see any.”
“That’s what I figured. Low-bid first aid kits. Looks like I’ll have to use duct tape after all.”
Grace studied his wrap job from across the cabin. “What for? Looks tight enough to me.”
“I need sticky tape to crisscross around and really build up some support. But I’ll have to shave first—it hurts bad enough without pulling my hairs out, too.”
“Oooh, sexy,” she said.
He shook his head and unsteadily got to his feet, one hand on the inward-curving bulkhead as pain sledgehammered his knee and his vision wavered. He regained control and limped into the latrine, every awkward step an exercise in agony, to give Grace some privacy while she put on her suit to move through the tunnel—or, if the truck was now a Turtle, the tunnel should now be the “neck”—to the cab.
Grace had gone forward when Van exited the latrine. She had left behind half of a fresh package of crackers, and he ate a few before he took another dose of Ibuprofen. Gritting his teeth every time he moved, he started cleaning up the common area; he listened in as Grace coordinated with the other two. He wasn’t done with the cleanup but at least he was prepared for motion when she announced over the intercom, “Getting ready to roll, Van.”
He sat down and braced himself before he switched on the mic. “Roger that. Let’s go pick up some ice.”
He stayed as still as possible while the truck was moving. The vehicle was stable enough—each wheel was independently mounted on controllable struts with limited range of motion, such that the Turtle could practically “walk” over small obstacles—but he didn’t trust his knee to deal with an unexpected sway or bump. On this barren plain, the truck swayed more than bumped; the surface undulated in uneven waves, like an inland sea instantly frozen. The bumps would start soon enough.
He read off the speed on the nearest display: they were making about twelve kilometers an hour. “Grace, why are you babying this thing?” Van asked over the intercom. “As slow as we’re moving, I think the Turtle name went to your head.”
“Slow and steady,” she said. “I think Turtle’s a good name for her.”
“I guess so. I think it ought to be a little bolder. Mean, even, like Snapper. Although the nose may not be pointed enough—”
“Whatever,” Grace said. The truck jounced as one of the wire mesh wheels hit something big. “Sorry. How’re you doing back there?”
“I’ll live. Best you keep your eyes on the road now.” He turned the volume down on the cabin speaker.
Van shifted around until he found a halfway comfortable position and retrieved his datapad. He checked the satellite overflight schedule; he needed to send a note to Barbara so she wouldn’t panic if she heard he was hurt.
He wasn’t sure how to compose a note to accomplish that. If he’d been at the main base, he would’ve ordered up a two-way and talked to her; the main antenna had plenty of power and, of course, always pointed at the Earth. The Turtle’s—Snapper’s—antenna was less powerful, so he’d have to spool the message, send it to the colony first, and then to Earth. The Consortium accepted the limitations because even with encryption they didn’t want just anyone on Earth to be able to receive every signal transmitted by their teams. Usually that presented no problem, but in this case the increased delay would make it hard on Barbara … and would have been unnecessary if LunarComm’s system worked or an L-1 relay was available.
Van started and deleted three attempts—two voice, one writing—before the upcoming overflight got close enough to force his hand. He decided voice and video would be best, even if it did take more bandwidth. Before he began, he wiped his face with a T-shirt and smoothed his hair as best he could, but with the poor lighting and the camera angle he looked pretty dreadful.
“Hey, sweetness,” he said. “I hope you get this message from me before you hear from anyone else. First thing is, I’m fine. They’re going to tell you I had an accident, but that’s an overstatement. Truth is, I fell over and wrenched my knee pretty good. I don’t think it’s torn up too bad—I’ve got it taped up and I can walk on it. Here, see?” He turned the camera pickup momentarily to capture the mountain range of bandage covering his knee. “No worse than what I did in the intramural soccer tournament a few years ago. So don’t worry. All else up here is grand, and you’re going to love it as much as I do when we get up here together. I’ve got to close now, the satellite overpass is coming up and I need to get this ready. I love you, sweetie, and I miss you all the time!”
Van fumbled a little with the routing instructions, but got the file compressed and in the upload queue with a few minutes to spare. He turned the cabin speaker back up.
“—make your distance eight klicks. Copy?” Oskar said.
“Affirmative, LSOV,” Grace said. “You ready to rumble?”
“Roger, Grace. The next rise you crest, stop partway down, out of LOS, until we’ve lifted.”
“Roger that. Estimate about ten minutes.”
“Sounds good.”
Van called up an outside view on the nearest display and toggled it until he found a camera trained back toward the LSOV. The Sun angle made the craft easy to pick out—as Snapper moved, light glinted off Rocky’s reflective surfaces. The distortion of distance, the 2-D image, and the lack of reliable size references made the LSOV look tiny; likewise, the LPPN, ROPS, and miniature tank farm looked like Lilliputian constructions.
Van overlaid a schematic of the LSOV’s takeoff profile on the screen. Rocky would take off primarily toward the east, between Snapper and the Halfway House—he chuckled at Oskar’s name, but he didn’t have a better one to offer—and overfly the route Grace had just driven. That way, it would throw most of its debris to the west across the plain. Fuel availability and the complexity of the machines weren’t the main reasons why the AC had put most of its money into rolling stock: the LSOV or any other flying vehicle created hazard corridors just by virtue of the rocks they tossed around.
The Turtle shivered to a stop. Van guessed they were at the top of the crest, about to lose line-of-sight communications. Grace confirmed it when she transmitted, “Okay, Oska
r, we’ll hunker down on the other side of this rise. Send us a signal once you’re up and away.”
“Will do, Grace. You and Van have a safe trip.”
“You, too.”
Van watched the camera view as Snapper rolled down the gentle incline. A few seconds after the LSOV was out of view, Grace stopped the truck.
“Van, you catch all that?” Grace called over the intercom.
“Yeah, Grace. Now we wait.” Van shuffled to the little basin of dirty dishes. “Since we’re still for the moment, I’ll do some cleaning up back here.”
“You haven’t cleaned up yet? You been sleeping?”
Van shook his head even though Grace couldn’t see. “Honestly, Grace, my leg hurts too bad to try to move around back here while Snapper’s rolling. I might be better off driving.”
“Oh, no,” Grace said. “You’re not getting out of cooking that easy.”
Thin wisps of static leaked from the speaker, followed by Oskar’s voice, but he wasn’t talking to Grace. If they could hear them, they must be up—
“—lock it down, Henry. Point oh-five.” A loud burst of static cut him off. “—the gimbal. Need more altitude. Watch the yaw.” More static.
“Grace? What’s going on out there?”
“I’m not sure. I’m not getting their telemetry signal … wait, there it is. Oh, sh—”
“LVN, LVN, this is LSOV,” Oskar called. “Takeoff non-nominal. Number four gimbal actuator failed, almost pitched us over. Compensated now, but it’s going to be a rough ride to base. We’ll call it in, but request you relay our IFE on the next satcom pass. Over.”
“LSOV, this is LVN,” Grace said. “Understand you are declaring an in-flight emergency. We will back up your comms and relay status. Do you have a—what the hell is that?”
Over static that bloomed to fill the sudden silence, irregular tapping reverberated as if hail were falling on the Turtle’s shell.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, the bones in Van’s leg seemed to have gear teeth on their ends that were systematically being snapped off and working their way deeper into the tissue around his knee. But he had his suit on.