A Grey Moon Over China

by Day, Thomas, A.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Well, that’s the top of the assembly and launch chamber for the big ships. The roof’s pretty thin.”

  “So we just vaporize it when we’re ready to launch?” I said. It was a pretty clever arrangement. “But why not just launch out the top of the island?” I gestured straight up above us.

  In answer, Polaski nodded back toward the opening we’d flown through at the end of the runways. “Because looking down from that opening we can defend the roof of the launch chamber and keep it clear. If we were going to go out the top of the island, like you say, all someone would have to do is park a couple of frogs on the roof and there’d be shit we could do about it.”

  “Torres!” Elliot was trotting across the runway toward us. He ignored Polaski. “Chan wants to see you. She’s all jumpy like, so maybe you ought to come quick.”

  “All right.”

  “Hey, Torres,” said Polaski as I walked away. “Do something about the boy.”

  I ignored him. When we were out of earshot I stopped Elliot.

  “Jesus, Tyrone. All of this in three weeks?”

  “Yeah, I know. He’s been pushing folks pretty hard.”

  “Pushing who? Who the hell are all these people?”

  “Well—he brought in most of your Shorts like you planned, but he’s got some other specialists in on TDY, down on the shelf. I don’t know what he’s been telling them.”

  “What’s he been telling the Shorts?”

  “That we might have a way off-planet. He ain’t exactly let on we’re freelance, though.”

  “Jesus. Okay—what shelf?”

  “You didn’t see it coming in? Down at the waterline, below the runway mouth. Couple of miles of flat rock. The bays for the big ships are under it—Polaski says right under the airfield opening is the only place we can defend a level area like that. Those bays are big suckers, too.”

  “So I heard. He said forty million feet. What’s that, a couple of square miles?”

  “Mile and a half. Big enough, though. Man, we sucked smoke out of those damn bays for ten days, and it still ain’t right down there.”

  I stopped.

  But Elliot spoke before I could. “Listen, Torres. No one liked having you gone. I know we planned this and all, but not this fast. We ain’t got time to think, you know what I mean?”

  There was a swirl of dark smoke centered in the opening for a moment, like an eye pressed up against a window, watching us.

  “You said you were pumping smoke, Tyrone. That smoke’s still up there. The whole world can see it.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t matter. Chan’s got this place so hexed that even with everyone out there falling over themselves to help, they’re begging not to know what it is they’re helping with.”

  “Maybe. But DoD’s going to find out sooner or later we’ve got their research. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Hell, they know we got their research. Your lady-friend’s smarter than you think.”

  “They what?”

  “Yes, sir. According to the great Department of Defense computer in the sky, this here island is Defense Advanced Research Project Agency’s number-one mission—hands-off, die-on-sight, no expense too revolting. The way Chan’s got it rigged, DARPA’s missing scientist fellow was found after all, by the very fine and loyal 42nd Engineers—that’s us—and to keep that self-same scientist a lot more dedicated to the cause this time, DARPA’s got him shut up on this island. Heavy defensive weapons seriously required by 42nd Engineers to defend it, thank you, along with lots of MI and manufacturing tools. So—not only does the military think their little power cell is in their hands, they’re taking real good care of us while we build it.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  C

  han flew into my arms.

  “Damn it, Eddie, you were gone too long.”

  “Hi, Chan.” I kissed her and began to let her go, but she took my hands and put them around her, then pressed herself against me and kissed me hard.

  “God, Eddie, I’m glad you’re back. Things aren’t going so well.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re moving too fast. Someone was killed this morning.”

  “Who?”

  “One of the cutting crew—I watched them pull her up. She was hit with a digger. And she wasn’t the first.”

  “Jesus.”

  Chan dropped down in front of a battered screen on the floor and wrapped herself in a blanket. We were in a corner of the cavern lit by a dim bulb, surrounded by packing crates.

  “Why are we doing this, Eddie? We’d be okay here, wouldn’t we, the two of us? We could get work, a place in Alaska. It wouldn’t be so bad.”

  As fast as my own mind was having to race to catch up with what we had already accomplished, I felt a flash of irritation at Chan for believing it could somehow be undone. “We can do better,” I said.

  “By getting away from everything you hate, you mean? You can’t, Eddie, and you know it. And you used to just come to me when you got like that. I liked that. I made it better for you.”

  “We may not be going, anyway,” I said.

  She looked up.

  “It’s not the cells—we can build those. And the cells can power the space tunnel, and the old ships can still be built—though like we thought, the world’s going to go broke building them for us. It’s the drones. This EI business is way out of our grasp. And the drones have to go up soon—the minute the tunnel’s ready if they’re going to have time to turn around.”

  Chan nodded and looked down at her screen.

  “That’s why I sent for you,” she said.

  There was a message on the screen.

  KATHERINE CHAN: A GOOD MACHINE TELLS ITS MISTRESS EVERYTHING. —ANNE MILLER, C.L.N.W.C.

  China Lake Naval Weapons Center.

  I didn’t understand the message, but I knew immediately that someone had seen my work.

  “Someone knows about the cells,” I said.

  “The cells? Probably. But look who she sent it to.”

  To Chan—it took a minute to sink in. If they knew to send the message to Chan . . .

  “Someone knows what we’ve been doing to the DoD computers,” I said.

  “You keep saying ‘someone.’ Don’t you know who that is?”

  “Anne Miller? Should I?”

  “China Lake, civilian. Probably designed the system you were working on. She’s also the world’s foremost expert on EI.”

  On EI? It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t surprising that my interest in EI had attracted expert attention, but here that expert was sitting on a fortune and had the means to take us out of the game at the same time—and was sending us coy messages, instead.

  “I called her,” said Chan. “But I still don’t know what she wants. She says she wants to see what we’re doing. I kept asking why, and she kept saying she was just tired of everyday intelligence. Those were her words, ‘everyday intelligence.’ She’s weird, Eddie. I don’t know if she’s coming to help us or stop us or what. But she’s coming.”

  “When?”

  “Today.”

  S

  o what do you think, Bolton?”

  We were touring the cavern in an electric cart, and we’d stopped to watch the crews testing the blast doors over the elevators. There was nothing I could do about Anne Miller until she was there.

  “I think it’s quite possibly defensible,” said Bolton. He was leaning on the wheel, wearing just his white uniform shorts and a t-shirt, gazing at the flying work platforms.

  “You know what I mean. About ransoming the power cells.”

  He started the cart and nodded toward the opening. Cargo helicopters were easing up over the rim one at a time and filing toward us along the wall, so far away we could barely see them. The opening was finally clear of smoke.

  “Looks like you could reach out and pinch them between your fingers, doesn’t it? Like insects.” He nodded toward D
avid Rosler hurrying across the apron to his jump-jet, bent forward at the waist with his black hair slapping against his forehead. “Our Mr. Rosler is enjoying himself rather too much, don’t you think?”

  “It’s occurred to me.”

  “What I think, lad,” said Bolton, “is that we are burning our bridges.”

  “So? What’s here on Earth that we need?”

  “True, and I am coming with you. Nonetheless, I do have people at home, and I find I’m not proud of grasping for the ring while they stay behind. I have a younger sister somewhere, you know, and she’s not quite right, and I don’t even know if someone’s caring for her. And a brother in the North who drives lorries and drinks. I think about them sometimes, and I can’t help but think that bitter and unpleasant as it’s become, it’s the belly of our own civilization we are about to carve our way free of. It troubles me that our freedom may never lose the mark of that passage.”

  The jump-jet’s engines spun up. Rosler twisted around to look out his side window, trying to see behind him.

  “Everything I can think of,” I said, “I’d just as soon leave behind.”

  “Mm,” said Bolton.

  With a roar the jump-jet lifted free and rose into the air, then rotated to face back the way it had come. It leaned forward and accelerated fiercely until it was free of the cavern and disappearing into the sky.

  Suddenly the cavern burst into light from a lamp high above, then another and another, leaping all at once into stark highlights and shadows as though a play had ended and the house lights had finally been switched on to the applause.

  “It would have been clever of them,” said Bolton, “to have gotten them working before all our mucking about in the dark.”

  W

  ho got killed, Polaski?” “Couple of grunts.”

  We were on a catwalk along the cavern wall, looking down at the elevator cables as they un-spooled.

  “We didn’t say anything about bringing in regulars.”

  “You said to do whatever it takes, Torres.”

  “Not this fast. We’re going to be here a long time, Polaski, and morale has to start out better than this.”

  “Most of these guys would have been dead if we’d left them where they were. We’re doing them a favor. But all right, Torres—we need to open the elevators and secure the place. You want to move nice and slow on that, too?”

  I thought about the coming arrival of Anne Miller, and about her message.

  “How secure are we?”

  “We’re not.”

  “Then no. Chan may have us classified in the Army’s books, but that’s just a signal for everybody else to slip people in here to see what the U.S. is up to. And we’re in too deep to have it blow open. Get the best security people you can, Polaski, and get the place sealed.”

  “Yes.”

  “No slips.”

  “Yes.”

  I

  found Bolton and Chan out on the apron, watching two aircraft approach the opening. From the walls came the familiar thwack-thwack of anti-aircraft laser solenoids engaging before locking on the aircraft. It was Rosler’s jump-jet escorting a small tail-fan passenger plane along the north runway’s centerline. Rosler kept his altitude while the tail-fan touched down and rolled into the light. It had U.S. Navy markings.

  The little plane’s engine purred to a stop. The pilot opened her door and let herself to the ground, holding a narrow briefcase and studying her surroundings. She was a slender, elegant woman, dressed in a khaki jumpsuit. She had fine features and high cheekbones with closely cut black hair, and silver earrings against light chocolate skin. Her eyes were dark and intelligent. But distant, somehow.

  With graceful strides she walked toward us, then hesitated and looked back at the aircraft. Finally she took the last step toward Chan, holding out her hand.

  “I’m Anne Miller. Ms. Chan?”

  “Yes. Welcome to—well, welcome. I guess we haven’t named it yet.” Chan’s quick smile.

  “Yes,” said Anne Miller. “I’d pictured landing on a beach somewhere.” She took a step past me to Bolton, who took her hand.

  “Michael Bolton, Ms. Miller. I understand you’ll be helping.”

  “I thought you might be the lieutenant.” She turned to me. “And you are Eduardo Torres. You are a very persistent man, did you know that?”

  A hydraulic whine came from the airplane and a set of steps slid out. When they touched the ground, the passenger door flew open with a smack and banged against its stops, propelled by an aluminum crutch in the hands of a big man in the doorway. He was looking straight down, concentrating on getting a second crutch out onto the steps. Miller made no move to help, so we just stood and watched.

  He was soft and heavy, dressed in a billowing white shirt and baggy trousers. We could see only the top of his head, covered with thin black hair touched with grey at the sides. The crutches were the kind that wrapped around the forearm above a grip, and when he finally had them planted on the top step he looked up.

  He had strong northern Indian features with skin the color of burnt peat. His face was big with fleshy jowls and wide, generous lips, and dark eyes close to a hooked nose.

  His face dissolved into a broad smile, which vanished again as he looked down to concentrate. As he worked his way down the steps, his lips pursed and his cheeks blew in and out, his face in constant motion. Finally he made it down and began a limping gait toward us, swinging his legs behind him with evident difficulty. The half-moon smile lit in his dark face and his lips worked and his head bobbed rhythmically, eyes darting from one of us to the other. He began to speak in a melodic baritone and King’s English out of another era.

  “A good landing, my dear! Very nicely done. Yes. Thank you. Hello! I am Madhu Patel, how are you? Yes, hello! You must be Katherine Chan. What a lovely, lovely girl! I am delighted.”

  He pushed himself straight with an effort to leave the crutches hanging from his arms. He took her hands in his and bowed forward to kiss them. Then he straightened and grabbed for his crutches, and looked past her shoulder.

  “Hello!” He pushed his way between Chan and me and limped back to the boy. No one had seen him come up. He had a clean set of bandages on his cheek, as though it had finally been sutured.

  “Hello! I am Madhu Patel.” He reached the boy and pumped his hand. “That is a fine looking flute. Yes! Perhaps you will play it for me sometime, yes? I would be most honored. Thank you, yes. And what is your name?”

  The boy looked down at the flute.

  “He’s just a kid from the islands,” I said. “We don’t know his name.”

  Patel peered intently at him. “Kip? Yes, that’s a very nice name. I am pleased to meet you, Kip.”

  He swung around again and leaned on his crutches a few paces away from me.

  “So. From your looks you are Eduardo Torres. I am told you are a determined man. I hope that that is a good thing.” He stepped toward Bolton, heaving upright again to hold out a hand. “Hello! And who are you? I am Madhu Patel.”

  “Michael Bolton, Mr. Patel. My pleasure.”

  Bolton let go of Patel’s hand and turned to Miller. “Perhaps you would explain.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “Madhu is an economist.”

  “Yes!” said the man. “And a very good one, too.”

  A silence followed, during which Bolton looked from one to the other.

  “I don’t understand,” he said.

  Patel walked a few steps away. “You should, young man.” He turned back and looked at Bolton from under heavy brows, then gazed around at his audience. “Allow me to explain.” He seemed to savor the idea of explaining anything to anyone, and took his time before starting.

  “Well,” he said at last. “My colleague here tells me that you are planning to present the world with an item for which it will pay any amount of money. You are then intending, as the Americans say, to take the money and run.”

  His voice rose at the end of ea
ch sentence, followed by a quick bob of his head.

  “Now, I am sure we all agree that one or two things are not as they should be in our poor world, but I have nevertheless some small sympathy for it, and I do not wish to see it come to harm.

  “So. What you may not realize, in your haste, is that you are about to introduce a powerful drug into the arm of a most fragile patient. It is my intention to keep that patient from expiring.

  “I will also”—he smiled broadly—“offer you your only chance of success.” His eyebrows rose and fell as he watched each of us in turn.

  “Mr. Patel,” I said, “I’m not sure why you’re here. We don’t, in any case, mean the world any harm. We only mean to leave.”

  “Ah!” His eyes flashed, then relaxed again. “No. I do wish you much success, my boy. And, if the truth were known, I rather hope to come along. But please do not think the time will come when you have all at once left your world behind. We are none of us so innocent. No, my young friend, the answers to whatever suffering this world has caused are still here, however much more suffering that is likely to bring. But enough! My business is the orderly theft of the world’s riches.”

  Bolton glanced at me. “I thought that’s what you meant to avoid.”

  “Ah-hah. I said only that I wished to avoid killing the patient while we operate, Mr. Bolton. No, I have come with a proposal to put to Mr. Torres. And to Mr. Polaski as well? One wonders. In any case, it is this: I will arrange for you to engage the world’s industry to your ends, if you will provide for others to follow. You must also leave your little secret behind.” He looked solemn for a moment, then burst into a laugh, very pleased with himself. I felt sick at hearing an outsider talk so cavalierly about what we’d tried so hard to keep private.

  “Perhaps,” said Bolton. “But as Mr. Torres has said, we’re still not certain how you’ve come to be here. Or why.”

  “Ah-hah. Yes. Well, I will tell you. You see, as intelligent as my colleague here is, she still chooses to tell me things.” He swung his head to look at her. “And when she told me of this little adventure of hers, I left her no choice but to bring me along.” For the first time since he’d arrived, his face was still and his eyes were hard as he looked at her.