"There must be two or three hundred people," Tanya said, noticing that some of them were children. She switched her mike to the emergency channel and started giving instructions in Russian.
"The instant the net is on the ground, run to the middle and sit down. If your suit has a safety hook, attach it to the net. Holes in the net are large enough for children to fall through. Instruct them to hold tight to the ropes with arms and legs. We leave in sixty seconds."
The hoppers landed in a rough square, the net laid out between them. The first thing each driver did was cut his hopper loose from the net; then he stood there, one hand on the limp shroud line coming down from above, the other helping people into the large net. The lander zoomed past, five kilometers overhead, and the yellow box drifted slowly after it as Donna switched from pulling in cable to letting out cable. People continued to clamber into the net.
"... forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty ..." Tanya was counting in Russian over the emergency channel. She looked around. Everyone seemed to be in and settled. "Our turn," she said to the hopper drivers in English as she started walking in toward the center of the net herself.
"Damn," Roscoe said quietly.
Tanya turned around. The shroud line had tangled around Roscoe's foot. It tightened and started to lift him. Tanya looked on with horror. The minute the shroud started to lift the massive load of people, Roscoe's foot would be amputated. Shortly after that—he would be dead.
"Help!" she screamed as she leaped for the shroud. She was able to grab it with her left hand just above Roscoe's tangled foot. Supporting her weight easily by one hand in the one-sixth lunar gravity, she managed to use her right hand to get enough slack to free his foot. He fell down into the closing pouch full of people. Suddenly, there was a jerk as Donna started the three-gee pickup acceleration. The shroud line was plucked from Tanya's hand with a force that sent her flying across the gray crust of the lunar surface far below. The last thing she remembered before she struck the ground was seeing a string bag of arms and legs being lifted into the sky and hearing excited clamors in Russian and English coming over the emergency channel.
Donna had started her reel-in at the signal from Michael, the pilot. Actually, she was still reeling out cable, but at a slightly slower speed than the motion of the ship. She monitored the jury-rigged displays on the computer-controlled take-up reel as it adjusted the speed of the cable to keep the accelerometer in the yellow box at the shroud attachment point hovering around three gees.
The minute needed for acceleration finally ended. Donna looked out the cargo hatch door along the thin line of cable. Two hundred kilometers away was a tiny bright speck in the sunlight moving slowly toward her.
"We've got a netful, Mike," Donna said over the intercom to the pilot. "Too big to fit in the hold. Let's head for the mother ship."
"Roger," Michael Wolfe said, and started a long curving trajectory that pulled the ship and its trailing net of human cargo away from the Moon and out to an interplanetary ark, floating motionless in the waveless calm of the vacuum of space, the deadly gamma ray glow of its antimatter engines turned off in consideration of those approaching to embark.
During the long journey out to Shalom, Donna slowly shortened the cable until the net was a kilometer away. Far enough from the rocket engines for safety, but close enough so they could wave to each other. Then Donna began to worry. They had practiced and practiced the simulations of dropping the net on the Moon and picking it up, but how were they supposed to land their cargo? She had heard of situations where someone pulling in a cable with a heavy cargo had tried to reel in too fast toward the last. Oscillations would start, and before they knew it the payload had wrapped itself a number of times around the spacecraft like an errant yo-yo.
"Almost there," the pilot reported. "And they have the landing net out. Get ready to cut the cable."
Donna peered ahead along the side of the long truss structure of Shalom. Just in back of the crew cabin, right next to one of the cargo airlocks, was spread a large net, firmly attached to some jury-rigged booms.
"Easy does it," Michael said as he drifted their catch toward the net. The netful of human beings hit and stuck, a hundred hands reaching through the netting to make sure.
"Cable cut!" Donna said. "You can take off and dock." But Michael just floated there for a few satisfied minutes, looking at the scene taking place a few hundred feet away. The pouch of their catch had broken open, and at that distance it looked like a recently disturbed spider's nest. The little spacesuited spiders were clambering their way across the ropes and then disappearing into the cavernous cargo hold after waving good-bye to their rescuers.
"Get in here, Mike!" Gus yelled over the radio. "Missiles have been launched from Earth—and they're headed our way!"
"Right!" Michael said, and the lander pulled gees for its docking port on the Shalom.
"Tell Tanya that I want to see her as soon as possible," Gus continued.
"Ah—" Michael stalled, wondering how to break the bad news Roscoe had relayed to him during their long trip back to the Shalom.
CHAPTER 15
Escape To Mars
IT WAS the loud, demanding female voice and the throbbing headache that helped Tanya realize that she was not dead. She opened her eyes slightly and looked around. She was in a hospital room on the Moon, and a doctor was arguing with someone. It was a huge woman, dressed like a low-budget movie version of an Amazon warrior, all bare flesh and skimpy gilded brass armor, but the pseudo-Greek helmet had a viewer over the left eye like the Caps of Contact of the Unies.
"Although all she suffered was a concussion, it was a bad one," the doctor was saying. He was wearing a green Cap of Contact. "She isn't even conscious yet."
"Let me know the instant she's awake," the Amazon said. "I have orders to return her to Earth immediately. The Infinite Lord himself has matters to settle with her."
Tanya closed her eyes and feigned unconsciousness. But it would not be long before they found out she was awake.
You are in serious trouble, Tanya Pavlova, she thought, the ache in her head making it hard to concentrate. Now that Alexander is ruler of the whole Earth, no one can stop him from killing people that thwart him ... He threatened to bomb those on the Moon that attempted to thwart his desires ... And you have definitely thwarted him time and time again. There came an unbidden vision of the enraged look on Alexander's face as Gus forced his way into his office, preventing her rape. You'll have one last chance when you are brought before him ... What will you do? First ... to save your life, and then ... to find some way to stop this insane, egotistical man. No, half a man. It was almost as if the two twins were two halves of a single person, one with all the good and one with all the evil.
No, it wasn't that simple. Her Gus was not an angel ... She caught herself and kept her lips from smiling at the memories that thought evoked. And Alexander was not the devil. He was a man, just a man. And there wasn't a woman born of woman who couldn't twist any man around her little finger if she worked hard enough at it—especially if she had practiced earlier on a nearly identical model ... She would have to swallow her dislike of the man and use all her wiles to keep herself alive and near him, where someday she might be able to do some good. As she fell off to sleep, the voices of the two Amazon guards drifted in through the open door to her room.
"What's the news on the escapees?" one said.
"They're heading for Mars," the other said. "But they're as good as dead. The minute the ship they're on tries to slow down, the missiles launched after it will catch up, and it'll all be over."
TWO MEN floated on opposite sides of a circular railing that surrounded a large three-dimensional display set in the command deck of their spacecraft. At one side of the display was the growing globe of Mars, and in the center was the arrowlike icon of their ship, turned around and ready to decelerate to bring the ship and its precious cargo to a halt at their destination. But on the other side of the display were eight dead
ly red dots.
Colonel Yitzhak Begin frowned with concern. He looked up at the stocky figure on the other side of the display. His glance met that of Dr. Augustus Armstrong, steel-gray eyes half hidden by the arrowlike crow's-feet wrinkle pattern that formed when he was angry or concerned. He was both.
"That power-mad brother of mine isn't satisfied with the whole world—he's got to kill everyone that isn't under his thumb—including his own brother! Isn't there anything we can do?"
"We're in no immediate danger," Yitzhak answered. "I accelerated the Shalom until we were going slightiy faster than the missiles, so we are actually pulling slowly away from them. We've reached turnaround and it is past time to start deceleration if we are going to stop at Mars. But, if I did that, they would catch up to us and it would be all over."
"Can we change course and lose them?
"I tried that when we were under acceleration. They just changed course. These must be maneuverable antisatellite warheads that they hurriedly mounted on top of interplanetary launchers when they saw us coming on the rescue mission. Not nuclear, of course—counterproductive in near-Earth battles. Just a small amount of high explosive to spread out the dozens of penetrator rods. But those rods would make Swiss cheese of the Shalom. I could try some more maneuvers as a last resort, but we don't have much fuel left."
"This was designed as a warship," Gus said, brightening slightly. "Couldn't we use its defensive missiles?"
"All weapons on the Shalom were removed or disabled by the orders of General Alexander Armstrong before he left," Colonel Begin replied grimly. "He didn't want to leave U.S. secrets in the hands of 'foreigners'. That was silly, of course; many countries have missiles that are cheaper and often better than U.S. missiles. Israel for one—the Russians for another."
"The Russian antispacecraft missiles!" Gus said, right hand starting to manipulate the control pad in front of him. "The ones on Deimos! We must contact Mars at once!"
TWENTY minutes later Chris returned their urgent call with a short video message.
"I talked to Boris Batusov, and he identified a Russian tech who helped install the missile system. They will both be leaving for Deimos shortly on emergency orbital flights along with anyone else who thinks they can be of help in deciphering the system and getting it operational. We'll do what we can, but it may take hours—or days."
"Or forever ..." Gus said as he stared at the frozen face of Chris left at the end of the message.
"I'll adjust our course so we pass right by Deimos, then gravity-whip by Mars," Colonel Begin said. "We may be able to shake a few when they lose lock on us as we go behind the two bodies. I'll try to put us on a trajectory for Jupiter. We can do another gravity turn around there and come back. Maybe by then someone will have thought of something."
"Are our life-support systems designed for that kind of journey? "
"No," Colonel Begin admitted. There was nothing more to say.
FOUR HOURS later Gus and Colonel Begin received a message over the ship's comm links requesting their presence in the pilot's briefing room. When they got there, they found the sixteen lander pilots floating in or above their chairs. Their copilots were not there. Michael Wolfe spoke for them.
"The guys have been talking since we heard about the missiles on our tail," he said. "We feel our job isn't done until those people we picked up are safe on the surface of Mars."
"But you did your job perfectly! Every one of your pickups were successful." Gus paused for a long moment. "We only lost one person ... and that wasn't your fault."
"Nevertheless," Michael persisted grimly, "we're going to make sure everyone gets home safe. We sixteen request that Colonel Begin start deceleration to bring the Shalom to rest in Mars orbit. Toward the end of the deceleration period, we sixteen will disengage our landers and head for the enemy missiles." He paused and continued grimly. "If we have anything to say about it, they will not hit the Shalom."
"I can't let you go to certain death!"
"There's sixteen of us and only eight missiles," said one of the pilots in the back. "That's fifty-fifty odds—pretty good for a rear guard action during a retreat."
There was a pause as Gus thought.
"He's right, you know, Dr. Armstrong," Colonel Begin said seriously.
"Can't we just launch the landers under automatic control?" Gus asked, still not wanting to make a decision.
"Those missiles are locked on a two-kilometer-long Yorktown class spaceship. They are going to ignore—even avoid—lander-sized spacecraft," Michael said. "Pilots will be necessary to supply terminal guidance."
"I still don't like the idea," Gus said.
"Two thousand dead or eight dead is the decision you must make," Colonel Begin said.
There was a long silence as Gus thought.
"It must be done," Gus finally said. Tears welled in his eyes as he looked around the room. "Thank you. All of you."
He pulled Michael Wolfe into his arms and gave him a bear hug, then went floating around the room to hug and thank each pilot in turn.
Colonel Begin paused for a moment to use a comm panel.
"Initiate deceleration ... That is correct. Initiate deceleration. Destination—Mars." He then followed Gus around the room, adding to the hug a European double kiss to both cheeks.
Smiling grimly, the pilots went down to their ships—alone.
SIX HOURS later there was another message from Chris. Mars now was a visible disk and was rapidly growing larger. The pursuing missiles were closing in on them as the Shalom decelerated.
"Boris and the techs had trouble breaking into the secure portions of the missile control system," said Chris' image on the video message. "They've laid bypass wiring that will enable them to launch the missiles, but they haven't been able to change the pursuit programming to make sure they ignore the Shalom and the landers."
"I'll just change our trajectory slightly and bring them so close that the Russian missiles won't need accurate pursuit programming," Colonel Begin said to Gus with a grim smile. "What was that phrase you Yankees used at Bunker Hill?"
"Wait until you see the whites of their eyes," Gus replied.
There was a strange noise in the corridor outside the control room. Gus went to the door and looked out.
"Oh! Hi, Dr. Armstrong," Maury said. "Just taking the family out for a little stroll to strengthen their legs while we have some gravity." Behind Maury were a dozen yellow ducklings waddling along on their little orange feet as they followed Maury down the corridor.
"They hatched a little sooner than I thought they would," he explained. "Now they think I'm their mommy. It's going to be hard to sell them off when I get to Mars."
Gus couldn't help but grin as he went back into the control room and shut the door.
BORIS Batusov floated on tiptoe above the sunlit gray dust of Deimos. He and his team of Martian techs and engineers had done what they could, but it hadn't been enough. There were too many uncertainties—and in space uncertain knowledge usually meant certain death. In this case, it could mean death for two thousand people.
Inside the control building his engineers were watching the action unfold on the radar screens. He, no longer needed, had felt compelled to come outside and see what happened with his own eyes, limited though they were.
Off to the left of the sun he saw a spot of reflected light in the sky. It soon became an elongated hyphen of light moving toward him. Sometime later a shiny head and red tail began to be visible. It was the Shalom, traveling backward, its antimatter engines off for the moment as it moved toward Deimos at relatively high speed. As the rapidly moving spacecraft drew closer, Boris could see the flare of the jets from the landers as they pulled away from behind the head of the Shalom.
"The people of Mars will remember you sixteen forever," Boris said to himself as he watched the landers move forward to form a protective cloud in front of the arrowlike spacecraft. The Shalom grew in size ... then things happened almost too fast to follow.
>
The Shalom shot by the small moon, not twenty kilometers overhead, and immediately turned on its antimatter rocket at maximum gees to decelerate into an elliptical capture orbit around Mars. Even if it were hit, there might be a few survivors in spacesuits who could be rescued by orbiters. Next came the cloud of sixteen landers—also moving backward, although their rockets were blasting at maximum acceleration to move them away from the Shalom and toward the incoming missiles. One lander came so close Boris was sure he could see the pilot in the cockpit.
The engineers monitoring the radar system inside the control building had the launching triggers set. The second the landers passed in one direction, the long-dormant Russian antispacecraft missiles were launched in the other direction. The ground rumbled under Boris' feet, and dozens of streaks of light dashed outward. There was a flash in the distance as an invisible anti-spacecraft missile launched from Deimos met an invisible anti-satellite missile launched a few days ago from Earth. Another flash, another, another ...
"Seven ..." Boris said, counting to himself and waiting for the eighth and last one. It did not come.
"One got through," said the discouraged voice of one of the engineers inside the control room. Boris saw the missile streak overhead directly along the trajectory that the Shalom had taken, its divert thrusters firing sporadically to keep it on trajectory. As it passed by, the ground shook with dozens of small explosions as the deadly rodlike debris from the warheads of the other seven missiles rained down on Deimos. One hit only a few dozen meters away from Boris and raised a fountain of dust interlaced with glowing droplets of rock and metal.
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