Moonwar

by Ben Bova

  “Good,” Doug said. “Great. How soon will the World Court take up our case?”

  Joanna’s reply came three seconds later. “We’re pushing for an emergency session of the court. Otherwise it’ll have to wait until November, when they convene again. At least they’ll put it at the head of their agenda, even if it’s November.”

  “November? That’s more than six months away.”

  “I’m trying to get to them sooner.”

  Doug felt his brows knitting. “Faure could do a lot of damage in six months.”

  Once she heard him, Joanna nodded. “But at least the public knows what’s going on now. Here in the States, especially, it’s the hottest thing in the media. You tell that reporter that she’s done more for Moonbase than a thousand troops could do.”

  Doug looked up and saw Edith standing by the partition that screened off the bedroom, quite naked.

  “Okay,” he said with a grin that he couldn’t suppress. “I’ll tell her right away.”

  The digital clock on Jack Killifer’s desk said eleven PM. The offices of the Urban Corps’ headquarters in Atlanta were nearly deserted.

  The offices took up the entire top floor of the tallest tower in the Peachtree Center. Looking out through the sweeping windows, Killifer saw a city darkened, blacked out, as if fearful of an air raid. Only far down at street level were there bright anti-crime lamps blazing through the night. Otherwise all the buildings seemed totally dark and abandoned.

  The sonofabitch enjoys making me stew around, waiting for him, Killifer groused to himself. Going on eight friggin’ years I’ve been working for these people and he still treats me like some office boy.

  The Urban Corps was one of the many disparate organizations loosely held together under the banner of the New Morality. They had elected presidents, won control of the House of Representatives, and had enough senators on their side to block legislation that they didn’t like. The anti-nanotechnology treaty had originated in the New Morality. Nanoluddite fanatics had gunned down pro-nanotech advocates, even women suspected of having nanotherapy instead of plastic surgery, and then proclaimed at their trials with the fervor of true belief that they were doing God’s work.

  For years, though, Killifer had urged his superiors in the Urban Corps that Moonbase was a danger to them.

  “As long as Moonbase exists it must use nanotechnology. As long as Moonbase exists it will continue to make its profits by building Clipperships out of pure diamond, using nanomachines, and selling those rocket craft to transport lines on Earth. As long as Moonbase exists, the nanotechnology treaty is a farce and everything that the Urban Corps and the New Morality has worked to achieve is in danger of crumbling away into dust.

  And now it was all coming true. Moonbase was laughing at them, Stavenger and his bitch of a mother were thumbing their noses at them. The news media were all full of bullcrap about Moonbase’s declaration of independence. Even some politicians were starting to say that maybe the nanotech treaty shouldn’t be interpreted so strictly.

  It could all fall apart, Killifer had been warning them for years. Only now, only with the humiliating rout of the Peacekeepers from Moonbase, were they beginning to take his warnings seriously.

  His desk phone beeped once. Killifer didn’t have to pick it up. He knew that he had been summoned at last into the presence of General O’Conner.

  Killifer hurried past rows of empty, silent desks and down a corridor formed by flimsy shoulder-high plastic partitions. Through an open door he stepped, into a reception area that was tastefully carpeted and furnished with small consultation desks. The door at the far end was shut. He knocked once and opened it.

  General O’Conner was sunk in his wheelchair, half dozing, a shrivelled shell of the dynamic powerful savior Killifer had met when he had joined the Urban Corps nearly eight years earlier.

  They had kept the news of the general’s strokes a secret, of course, known only to the innermost circle of the corps. Not even the highest leaders of the other New Morality groups knew about it. To the outside world, General O’Conner was still the vigorous, forceful, charismatic leader of the organization that was transforming American cities from crime-ridden slums into rigidly controlled urban centers.

  With the staff’s careful handling of the crisis, General O’Conner had become an inaccessible figure, too lofty to waste his time with meetings and rallies. And the more inaccessible he became, the greater the tales of his power and saintliness. The less he was seen, the more he was admired and sought after. Rumors abounded of his appearances in disguise among the poor. He was “seen” all across the country, sometimes in more than one place simultaneously. Thanks to clever electronic simulations that kept his image before the public, the general was becoming a figure of mythic power.

  “Well, what’re you waiting for?” General O’Conner said, in his cranky slurred croak of a voice.

  “I thought you had fallen asleep,” said Killifer, going to the armchair beside him.

  The general worked the toggle on his wheelchair’s control box and trundled off toward the windows. “Is the whole city blacked out, except for us?”

  Killifer had to get up and follow him. “Most of the city,” he replied. “When curfew strikes, the power goes down. Electricity stays on for residences, of course.”

  “Apartments, too? Condos?”

  “Yeah. It wouldn’t be smart to shut off their power.”

  “Then why’s everything pitch-black out there?” the general demanded. “Are we the only ones showing any light?”

  Killifer had explained this to the failing old man a dozen times since the blackout decision had been announced.

  “That’s right, we’re the only one,” he said. “The apartment blocks and condo buildings curtain their windows as a sign of respect.”

  The wizened old man glared at him. “And whose idea was that?”

  “Yours, of course,” he said.

  “I never made such a decision. I’d remember it if I did.”

  “Well,” said Killifer, “it was mine, really. Acting in your name, of course.”

  Actually, it had been the bright idea of one of the young psychologists on the staff. But Killifer had implemented it and he’d be damned if he’d let the young snot take the credit

  “Why?” O’Conner asked testily.

  Killifer replied, “It gives the ordinary people the feeling that they’re making a sacrifice. It makes them feel that they’re contributing to the general welfare.”

  “You’ve learned well,” rasped O’Conner. “Make them want to obey. That’s the secret!”

  “You’ve taught me well,” Killifer said, feeling something almost like affection for the old man.

  Wheeling his chair around to face Killifer, General O’Conner said, “Now what’s happening with the Moonbase problem?”

  Killifer shook his head. “It’s getting worse instead of better.”

  “I see they’re broadcasting news reports from Moonbase. I thought the media had agreed to a blackout.”

  “They had. But it’s been busted wide open.”

  The general’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. “How? Who did it?”

  Killifer explained the series of events, tracing the break of the news blackout to Tamara Bonai in Kiribati.

  “Kiribati?” General O’Conner’s ravaged face glared at him. “Where’s that?”

  “In the Pacific. Micronesia.”

  The general seemed to sink in on himself, thinking. Then he started cackling.

  “What’s funny?” Killifer asked.

  “I did missionary work out there when I was a kid.”

  That surprised Killifer. “You did?”

  “Tonga. Fiji. I wore the black suit and tie and went out among the heathen.” He wiped at his eyes with a frail hand.

  “I never knew.”

  “They were good people. They listened to me and smiled and agreed with everything I said. Helped me build a church for them. They even attended services.�
��

  “Terrific,” Killifer muttered.

  “But it didn’t do one bit of good. They went about living the way they always had. Dressed up for me, of course. But other times they went back to being as naked as sin. To them, sex was about as casual as taking a swim in the lagoon.”

  He almost sounded wistful, Killifer thought. “Well, now they have office buildings and shopping malls and major tourist centers.”

  “And this woman, what’s her name?”

  “Tamara Bonai.”

  “She broke the news blackout?”

  “She sure as hell did.”

  “Then she ought to be punished,” General O’Conner said. “Swiftly and obviously. People ought to know that those who oppose God’s will are struck down.”

  Killifer’s insides shuddered. “You mean kill her?”

  “Yes,” said the general. “See to it.”

  “Me?”

  “You. And nobody else.”

  He started to say, “But why me? I’m no …”

  O’Conner’s burning red eyes silenced him. The general had made up his mind and he had chosen Killifer for the job. That was unalterable.

  One thing that Killifer had learned in his eight years with the Corps: you obey, but you ask for something in return.

  “If we’re going to punish people, what about Joanna Stavenger … I mean, Brudnoy.”

  “She’s back here, back’ from the Moon?”

  “Yeah.”

  O’Conner mulled it over for ten seconds. “You’re right. Strike her down, too.”

  Killifer nodded, satisfied. The woman who had ruined his life was going to get what she deserved, at last.

  “Too bad we can’t get her son.”

  “Douglas Stavenger?”

  “Yeah. He’s up at Moonbase, though. Out of reach.”

  General O’Conner pointed a wavering finger at Killifer. “Don’t be so sure of that, my boy. No one’s out of reach of the angel of death.”

  DAY SIXTEEN

  “Hey, what’re you doing there?”

  The mercenary looked up. A woman in the slate-gray coveralls of the transportation division was striding down the line of spacesuits toward him. She looked to be in her thirties, a little heavyset, mousey brown hair chopped short, and an angry frown on her face.

  “Doug Stavenger asked me to check out his suit,” the mercenary said.

  “I maintain the suits,” she said, jabbing a thumb toward her ample chest. Her nametage said LIEBOWITZ. “Since when does Stavenger send strangers to do my job?”

  She was almost the mercenary’s own height, and now that she was almost nose-to-nose with him he saw that her size was probably muscle, not fat.

  He put on a smile. “Doug’s worried about sabotage,” he said. The best lies are always based on the truth, he knew.

  “Sabotage? Are you kidding?”

  The mercenary shook his head slowly. “No, I’m not kidding, Liebowitz. We’re at war, aren’t we? Under siege?”

  “But who the frick’s gonna sabotage anything here? Everybody here’s for Moonbase. We’re all on Stavenger’s side.”

  “Yeah? Were you at the meeting in the Cave last week?”

  “Sure.”

  “How many people there wanted to go back Earthside right away?”

  Liebowitz’s expression turned thoughtful. “Well, a few, I guess.”

  “And they won’t be able to go until this war is settled, right?”

  “Oh, I dunno. Stavenger talked about arranging an evacuation flight for ’em.”

  “You seen any evacuation flight arrive? The U.N. wants to keep us bottled up here until we cave in.”

  “Yeah, maybe …”

  The mercenary was enjoying sparring with her. He began to think it might be fun to share a meal with her, get to know her better. She was white, of course, but maybe …

  He pushed those thoughts aside. “Well, don’t you think that maybe some pissed-off technician or administrator might figure that a little sabotage here or there will help make us surrender and end the war? Then he can go home.”

  Liebowitz almost bought it. But after a few moments she said, “Naahhh. I just don’t see anybody who’s lived here for more’n ten minutes going around sabotaging anything. That could kill somebody, for chrissakes.”

  “Maybe so,” the mercenary said. “But Stavenger’s worried about it and he asked me to check out his suit.”

  She puffed out a breath between her teeth. “Okay. Okay. It sounds wonky to me, but if the boss wants you to check his suit, go right ahead.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and stood there, solidly planted, not budging. The mercenary went through the motions of checking Doug’s hard suit, wishing she would go away, knowing she wouldn’t, and telling himself that he’d have to come back when Liebowitz was off duty and some less dedicated technician was on the job.

  “When’s your shift end?” he asked as he looked over the seal ring on Doug’s helmet.

  “Same’s yours.”

  “I’m working directly for Stavenger. No shifts; it’s twenty-four hours a day for me.”

  She h’mphed. “Well, I’m on the day shift, as you can see. I finish at four, just like everybody else.”

  The mercenary returned the helmet to its rack, above the suit. “How about having dinner with me? Seven o’clock, in the Cave?”

  She gave him a quizzical look. The mercenary knew exactly what was going through her mind. Would she want to be seen having dinner with a black man?

  “Okay,” she said guardedly. “Seven o’clock at the Cave.”

  It took him a couple of heartbeats to realize she had accepted. “See you there,” he said, with a genuine smile.

  And as he walked away, down the long line of empty spacesuits hanging like medieval arrays of armor with their helmets racked above them, he thought that after dinner with her he d return and finish the job here.

  Stavenger’s going to go outside sooner or later, and when he does, a malfunction in his suit is going to kill him.

  Later that day Doug was in Jinny Anson’s office, meeting with the base director and the heads of the mining, transportation and research divisions.

  Anson had rearranged the furniture so that the oblong conference table now butted against the desk like the vertical leg of a letter T.

  Kris Cardenas was also sitting at the table, across from Zoltan Kadar, the astronomer. No one had invited the Hungarian to this strategy meeting; he had shown up with the others and grabbed a chair before anyone could shoo him away. His precious survey satellite to farside had been launched the day before, so Doug wondered what he wanted now.

  And sitting silently on the couch along the far wall of the office was Bam Gordette, silently watching, listening. He’s become like my shadow, Doug thought. Everywhere I go, he goes. He doesn’t say anything, but he takes in everything with those dark brown eyes, like a detective looking over a crime scene. Then a new thought struck Doug: Maybe Bam thinks he’s my bodyguard. He sure acts like one. The thought made him smile to himself. I don’t need a bodyguard here, not in Moonbase. But it made him feel almost grateful to Gordette for caring enough to act as one.

  Doug took the chair at the foot of the table, facing Anson, who sat behind her desk.

  “I’ve asked you here—most of you, anyway,” he added, with a wry grin in Kadar’s direction, “to talk over the chances of developing defenses against the next Peacekeeper assault.”

  “You think they’ll be back, then,” said Deborah Paine. Head of the research division, she had a frizzy blond hairdo and an hourglass figure that had driven many men to distraction. She happened to be a very serious biologist, a topflight science administrator, and a cheerful lesbian.

  “They’ll be back,” Doug said. “Faure’s delaying any negotiations as much as he can. He’s going to try to take us by force before agreeing to any compromise.”

  “We don’t want any compromise, either,” Anson snapped. “It’s independence or bu
st.”

  Harry Clemens clasped both hands behind his bald head and tilted his chair so far back Doug was afraid it would fall over. “So we’ve got to be prepared to defend ourselves, then?”

  “That’s right,” said Doug.

  “Against what?”

  “More Peacekeeper troops,” said Vince Falcone, head of the mining division.

  “Worse than that,” Clemens said in his mild, soft way.

  “Like what?” Falcone asked.

  “One modest nuclear warhead exploded a few hundred meters above the crater floor could knock out all our solar farms.”

  Doug countered, “But we’ve still got the nuclear backup. It’s buried—.”

  “Nuclear warhead number two will be a ground blast, to knock out our generator.”

  Falcone nodded solemnly. “The second one doesn’t even have to be a nuclear warhead. Conventional warhead will do, if they’ve got the generator pinpointed.”

  “Okay,” said Doug, looking at each of them in turn. “The first thing we’ve got to do is figure out what they can throw at us. Then we’ve got to look for ways to defend ourselves against each possible threat.”

  “Lotsa luck,” Falcone grumbled. He was built like a fireplug, with short thick arms and a nearly perpetual scowl on his dark face. Instead of the usual coveralls, he preferred to wear dark turtlenecks and comfortable, loose-fitting jeans that he jammed into scuffed old cowboy boots.

  “There may be a way to defend against a nuclear warhead,” said Deborah Paine.

  Doug felt his eyebrows hike halfway to his scalp.

  “The physicists have been using the mass driver’s magnets to power a particle accelerator,” Paine said. “If we could focus the beam on an incoming warhead, it could destroy the nuclear device’s switching and fusing mechanisms.”

  “Are you sure?” Doug asked.

  “It’s actually pretty old stuff,” she replied, “from the anti-missile defenses that the Peacekeepers maintain in Earth orbit.”

  “So it turns the nuke into a dud, huh?” Falcone asked.

  “Yes. The warhead will crash onto the crater floor, but the bomb won’t go off.”