by Ben Bova
Falcone and his team threaded their way through the maze of piping and pumps that recycled and circulated air through Moonbase, dragging the cylinders of high-pressure oxygen clunking loudly along the narrow metal mesh walkways that twined through the throbbing equipment.
“There it is!” one of his men shouted, pointing to a metal hatch set into the rock ceiling.
Falcone squinted up to where the man was pointing. The ceiling was shadowy, criss-crossed with pipes.
“Naw,” he said. “Farther back. We want the last one of the hatches. The very last one.”
The man grumbled but moved on, deeper into the EVC.
“Is this really gonna work?” asked the guy just behind Falcone, gasping with exertion as he dragged a bulky oxygen cylinder.
“High-pressure gas on this end, vacuum on the other end. Oughtta blow out anything in the vents that ain’t fastened down.”
“Oughtta,” the man puffed.
Oughtta, Falcone said to himself. If the team with the friggin’ hoses shows up in time.
Doug spoke into his handheld phone as he ran along the corridor toward the university studio.
“How soon?” he demanded.
“Got the hoses, finally,” Falcone’s voice crackled. “Gimme five minutes.”
“We’ve got to open the vents to vacuum, Vince! Water’s shorting out half the sections on level two.”
“Three minutes.”
“Call the control center when you’re ready. Jinny’s back and she’ll handle it.”
“What about you?”
Glancing at Gordette, loping along beside him with his assault rifle gripped tightly in his hands, Doug replied, “I’ve got other problems.”
As far as Amos Yerkes could tell, this was the last partition between him and the environmental control center. Blinking at the sweat trickling into his eyes, telling himself he should have thought to wear a headband, he pulled out the schematic map of Moonbase and tried to check out where he actually was.
Yes, that should be the end of the tunnel, on the other side of this partition. One more to go and he’d be directly over Moonbase’s environmental control center.
When I blow that up, he thought happily, they won’t have any air to breathe. I won’t go alone; I’ll take all of them with me!
He started working on the partition with newfound energy.
Face streaked with grease, Jinny Anson sat at the same console Doug had been using, finger hovering over the keypad that would open all the plasma vent baffles.
Come on, Vince, she grumbled to herself. Move it, you big ape.
As if he’d heard her, Falcone’s swarthy face appeared on the screen showing the environmental control center.
Grinning broadly, he said, “All connected. We’re ready anytime you are.”
Anson let out a grateful sigh, then said, “Ten seconds?”
“Ten seconds,” Falcone said, teeth flashing.
“On my mark …” She glanced at the console’s digital clock. “Mark!”
“Ten seconds and counting,” Falcone said.
As they approached the double doors of the studio, Doug said to Gordette, “Are you a good enough shot to get him without hitting the explosives?”
Gordette grunted. “Which eye do you want me to hit?”
Doug almost stopped running. We’re going to kill a man, he realized. Deliberately kill him. Or try to.
“Besides,” Gordette added, “they’re most likely carrying plastic explosives. Bullets won’t set ’em off.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep,” said Gordette, without missing a stride.
As he worked on the final partition, Yerkes wondered how the other volunteers had done. He had felt the rumble of two explosions, it seemed like hours ago. Since then nothing. The others must be having the same troubles I’ve had, he thought. But they don’t have as far to travel as I do. I’ll blow up my target before they even get to theirs.
The thought pleased him.
The partition was loosening, he could feel it as he dug the accumulated dust away from its hinges. Not merely loosening, it was shaking, flapping—
It sprang open, banging on his helmet, half stunning Yerkes. He heard a rushing sound, like wind, like a roaring hurricane.
He was sliding along the vent, skidding backwards on his belly, being pushed by some giant hand faster and faster. The dim circle of light thrown by his helmet lamp showed the vent walls speeding past.
Desperately he tried to stop himself, dig his gloved fingers into the vent floor, but there was nothing to grab onto. He reached out sideways toward the tunnel walls, but the force of the wind tore at his hands, his arms, and he skidded along backwards, screaming now in fear as he slid down the vent like a feather caught in a tornado.
Colonel Giap had climbed up onto the roof of his tractor’s cab. There had been no word from Moonbase since he’d told Stavenger about the suicide bombers. His troops loitered around their vehicles, waiting for the inevitable. The ground had trembled twice, almost an hour earlier. Then nothing but silence and stillness.
Giap looked at the watch on the wrist of his spacesuit. They’re all dead in there by now, he thought. Dead or dying. I should send the troops in, perhaps we can save a few.
Something caught his eye. He blinked, not sure of what he was seeing. A cloud of glittering sparkles was erupting slowly from the hatch that opened into the plasma vents. The ladder that his troops had placed there toppled slowly, like a stiff, arthritic old man, and fell flat on the crater floor in complete silence, sending up a puff of dust.
It was like a geyser, Giap thought, but a geyser of scintillating little jewels that flashed and twinkled in the harsh sunlight. On and on it went, spewing slowly out from the plasma vent hatch across the dark lunar sky, a thousand million fireflies flickering in all the colors of the rainbow.
Then something solid and heavy came shooting out of the hatch. Giap saw arms and legs flailing. A spacesuit! A man! One of the suicide volunteers, he realized. The body soared across the crater floor and landed with a thump that raised a lazy cloud of dust. It did not move once it hit.
Giap stared, not knowing what to think, what to do. Another body came flying out, tumbling like a pinwheel, landing helmet-first on the regolith. And then a third, limbs hanging loosely, already unconscious or dead. It fell near the other two.
THE STUDIO
Doug stopped in front of the double doors marked lunar university video center: DO NOT ENTER WHEN RED LIGHT IS FLASHING.
As he reached for the door pull, Gordette grabbed at his hand.
“Hold it,” Gordette said. “Look before you leap.”
Doug nodded and went to the wall phone next to the doors. Calling the control center, he asked for the security camera view of the studio.
The wall phone’s screen was tiny. It showed the panoramic view of the studio from the ceiling.
“Maximum zoom,” Doug ordered, “and pan across the room.”
The picture tracked across the studio, shadowy and dim in its spotty lighting. Cameras, monitors, racks of electronic equipment, the editing booth—empty—the sets where Zimmerman and Cardenas and others had given their lectures and demonstrations, also empty.
The thought of Zimmerman sent a pang through Doug, but he swiftly suppressed it. Edith is in there with a crazy man, he reminded himself. That’s what’s important now.
“Hold it there,” Gordette snapped.
The camera stopped. Doug could see Zimmerman’s extra-wide couch had been pulled from the wall; Edith and the spacesuited suicide bomber were crouched behind it.
“Well, he’s no fool,” Gordette muttered. “Dug him self in as far from the door as he could. Long as he stays behind the couch I won’t be able to snipe him. Have to spray the whole couch.”
“And kill Edith?”
“Maybe you can talk him into letting her—oh, oh!”
“What?”
“Is that the best magnification we can get?”
/>
“Yes,” Doug said. “What is it?”
Squinting hard at the little screen, Gordette said, “Looks like he’s already got his thumb on the detonator button.”
“So?”
“That arms the detonator. When he takes his thumb off the button the bomb goes off.”
Doug felt his insides sink. “So if you shoot him it explodes?”
“Yeah.”
“What can we do?”
“Talk him into disarming the detonator.”
Doug knew how futile that was. “Or into letting Edith go.”
Gordette inclined his head slightly in what might have been a nod. “There is that.”
Anson peered at the screen showing the camera’s view of the crater floor just outside the main airlock. Spacesuited Peacekeeper troops were gathering around the three unmoving bodies sprawled on the ground.
“Two hit the nanolabs,” she said, ticking off on her fingers, “one did the water factory. That’s three. One’s in the studio, that’s four. And those three make seven. That’s all of ’em.”
“The water’s out of the factory,” said the technician next to her. “Maintenance crews are reestablishing electrical power in the areas that were shorted out.”
Vince Falcone trudged into the control center, a bright grin slashing across his dark stubbly face.
Anson got up from her chair, yanked off her headset, and threw her arms around Falcone’s neck. “We did it!” she said, then kissed him soundly.
Despite his swarthy complexion, Falcone blushed visibly. “Yeah, okay, we flushed out the garbage,” he said. “But there’s still one of the bastards in the studio, isn’t there?”
Colonel Giap was almost glad when he told Faure, “They have defeated us. There is nothing more we can do.”
Faure’s image on the colonel’s laptop screen was nearly purple with rage. “But there must be something! Your second wave of troops! The solar farms! Something!”
Resignedly, Giap said, “If I send more troops into those tunnels, they will be blinded and neutralized just as the first wave was. If I try to destroy their solar energy farms, they will engage us in a firefight that will cause unacceptable casualties.”
Then he waited three seconds, watching Faure’s helpless frustration. Perhaps the little man will give himself a stroke, Giap thought.
Faure’s reply was explosive. “Who are you to decide how many casualties are unacceptable! I am your superior! I make such decisions!”
“Throwing away lives will be pointless,” Giap said. “I will not do it.”
As he waited for Faure’s reply, Giap reflected that battles are won or lost on the moral level. One side loses the will to fight, and that’s what has happened to me. Why should I throw away my troopers’ lives for that pompous little politician in New York? To destroy Moonbase? To kill two thousand civilians?
“Are you saying to me,” Faure replied at last, voice barely under control, “that you would refuse my direct order?”
“I am saying that I will resign my commission before carrying out such an order,” Giap said, almost surprised to hear his own words.
We could tear up their radiators, he thought. Or simply cut the pipes that connect the radiators to the inside of the base, and then leave. That would take only a few minutes and it would leave them to cook in their own waste heat. There would be no firefight, not if we left immediately afterward. But what good would that do? They would come out and repair the damage.
No, he said to himself, best to leave now while the entire force is alive and unhurt. The Sacred Seven have killed themselves, that’s enough. No sense killing more.
“It’s me he wants,” Doug said, reaching for the studio door again. “He’ll trade Edith for me.”
“Maybe,” Gordette replied.
“It’s the only chance we’ve got.”
“What’s this ‘we,’ white man? He wants to blow you away!”
“I can’t stand out here and let him kill Edith.”
Gazing at him with red-rimmed eyes, Gordette said softly, “I know.”
Gordette seemed to relax. He let go of the assault rifle with one of his hands, holding it only by its barrel, letting its butt touch the floor.
“You stay out here, Bam,” said Doug. “If he sees you with the gun, he might touch himself off.”
“Yeah,” Gordette said with a resigned sigh. “Go ahead.”
He watched Doug open the door and step inside the dimly lit studio, thinking to himself, Doug wants to die. He’s ready for it. They’ve worn him down to the point where he’s willing to give them his life in exchange for hers. Then Gordette realized that it wasn’t merely in exchange for Edith. It’s for Moonbase, he understood at last. He’s willing to give his life for ours. All of us. For chrissakes, he’s willing to die for me.
And what am I willing to do for him? Gordette asked himself. Then a new thought touched him: If he dies, what happens to me? The rest of the people around here don’t trust me. They hate me. They’ll even blame me for not protecting Doug. But what can I do? What do I want to do? Am I willing to get myself killed for him?
Doug, meanwhile, had taken a few steps inside the studio. He called out, “Edith, are you all right?”
She rose to her feet slowly. “I’m okay.” Her voice was shaky.
The suicide bomber poked the top of his head above the couch’s back. Doug saw that he had taken off his spacesuit helmet, but couldn’t see where his hands were.
“You are Douglas Stavenger?”
“I am Douglas Stavenger.”
The man hissed with satisfaction. “Kami wa subarashi! You will come here, to me. Now!”
“First you’ve got to let her go,” Doug said.
“When you are here beside me I will allow her to leave.”
“No,” Doug said. “You release her first. Once she’s safely out of this room, I’ll come and stand beside you.”
“You do not trust me?”
Doug almost smiled. “I want to make sure that she’s safe. That there aren’t any … accidents.”
“Why should I trust you? You are filled with the devil machines!”
And you are filled with hate, Doug thought. Or is it fear? Can I work on his fear, or will that just make things worse?
“My nanomachines can’t harm you or anyone else,” he said.
“It makes no difference,” the young man said. “Soon we will both be dead.”
“Yes, that’s true. But let the woman go. She has nothing to do with what must happen between you and me. She’s a visitor here, trapped by the war. Let her go.”
“When you come to me, she can go.”
Stalemate. Then Doug thought, “At least allow her to get a camera and make a video record of our last moments together. So the whole world can see what you did.”
Even from across the half-lit studio Doug could see the young man’s eyes brighten. He started to respond, then hesitated.
Doug felt his pulse thundering in his ears.
At last the suicide bomber said gruffly, “Very well, she can video our last moments.”
If Edith minded that both the men were talking about her in the third person, she didn’t show it. Without another word being said, she walked purposefully from behind the couch to the rack of electronic equipment near the door.
The suicide bomber remained almost totally hidden behind the couch. Is there enough of him showing for Bam to get a shot off? Doug wondered.
“Now you come here!” the young man commanded.
“No!” Gordette roared.
Wheeling, Doug had just a split-second to see Gordette’s fist coming at his jaw. Then everything went blurry and he felt himself sagging to the floor.
“Get out of here!” Gordette yelled to Edith. “Take him with you!”
“No! Stop!” the suicide bomber screamed. “I will kill us all!”
Doug felt Edith’s arms clutch him, dragging him toward the door. It was only a few steps away, but it seemed like
miles.
“Wha …” he heard himself mumble, still dazed, legs stumbling awkwardly. “Wait, don’t …”
“Stop! Who are you?” the suicide bomber yelled, ducking behind the couch again.
Walking deliberately toward the couch, assault rifle levelled at his hip, Gordette said, “I’m the angel of death, man. You want to die? Well, so do I.”
Gordette smiled as he realized the beautiful, inevitable truth to it. I’m the one who’s been rushing toward death, he knew at last. I’m the one who needs to die. At least now my death will mean something, accomplish something.
“I’ll kill us all!” the bomber screamed.
“You go right ahead,” Gordette answered calmly.
Doug was struggling to his feet out in the corridor while Edith was sliding the door shut. He heard the chatter of the assault rifle and then an explosion ripped the doors off their slides and flung Edith across the corridor.
* * *
It took fully half an hour for Georges Faure to calm himself to the point where he could touch his intercom keypad with a trembling finger and say, his voice hardly shaking at all:
“I see that several calls have accumulated while I was speaking with the Peacekeepers on the Moon. Tell them all that I am unavailable.”
His aide replied from the outer office, “Mr. Yamagata is most insistent, sir.”
Faure saw that Yamagata’s name was at the top of the list on his desktop screen.
“I am unavailable,” he repeated sternly.
“Yes, sir.”
For long moments Faure sat there in his desk chair, feeling cold sweat soaking him. I must look terrible, he thought. He pushed himself to his feet and tottered across the thick carpeting to his lavatory.
In the mirror over the sink he saw the face of a defeated man. The Moonbase rebels have won the victory, he told himself.
He splashed water on his face, mopped it dry, then carefully combed his hair. I must change the clothes, he thought. This suit is wrinkled and damp.
As he reached for the cologne, the phone beside the sink chimed. He ignored it.
Moonbase has won the battle, he said to himself, patting the musk-scented cologne on his cheeks, but not the war. Straightening his slumped spine, squaring his shoulders, he repeated to his image in the mirror, No, not the war.
