by IGMS
Vishti shrugged. "It's just that Trill and I had this bet . . ."
"You're gambling?" Kirtley said, brow furrowing. He pivoted again and glared at Trill. "On my base?"
"A friendly wager," Vishti said soothingly. "We do it all the time."
Kirtley didn't so much a blink. "I asked you a question, Trilling. Are you gambling on my base?"
Vishti took a step in their direction. "It was just --"
Trill knew Kirtley had made up his mind. There was only one thing to do.
He snapped to attention. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
"Sorry, sir?" Kirtley repeated. "You think that covers it?"
"No, sir."
Kirtley rose up on his toes and got in Trill's face. The man had missed his calling; he was a natural-born drill sergeant.
"Damn right, 'no, sir,'" Kirtley barked. "You'll suit up and get those ore carriers taken care of. And when you get back here, you'll strip down the lunar elevator's control mechanism and rebuild it. And if it takes you more than two hours to rebuild, you'll do it again. And again. Until you can do it in the allotted time."
"Yes, sir!"
Trill saluted, and held the salute, until Kirtley returned it. He knew it was hard to argue with someone who said little more than "yes, sir," and "no, sir."
As Kirtley made his way out of the observation deck, Vishti stared at Trill. Trill knew what Vishti wanted to say -- and appreciated the sentiments behind it. But it changed nothing.
The programmer said it anyway. "That is the stupidest thing I have ever heard. What is rebuilding the elevator's controls going to accomplish?"
Trill shook his head, watching Kirtley's form as it disappeared down the hallway. "Besides putting me in the middle of the place I most want to be, knowing he'll never let me go there when it matters? Not much." Trill's eyes defied Vishti to tell him he was wrong. But in his mind he was picturing himself laying his king down on the board. Resigning. "This operation is under military jurisdiction for a reason. And as close as we are to war with the Chinese, this is no time to be second-guessing a superior officer. I've got my orders. And I'll carry them out."
The Earth was full and blue and very far away. Around it, the stars gleamed brilliantly. They were brighter than Trill could have ever imagined before coming to the moon.
He ran his small repair craft over the edge of the crater, watching the lunar dust fly in low-gravity slow motion. Getting sent out here was far from the worst thing he could think of. Trill just wished he had a chance to be more of an astronaut. He wanted to be out in space so bad that it --
He killed the thought even as it took form. Navigating the moon's surface is more than 99.999999% of people would ever get to do, he thought to himself. Stop being a baby.
Trill pulled the repair craft up to the stalled-out train of ore carriers. The Indo-American coalition was testing them on the moon before using the lunar elevator to launch them to Mars. The ore carriers ran on the same basic maglev principles as the lunar elevator, albeit another version -- a version that broke down a lot more often. Trill questioned whether he could, in good conscience, recommend sending this equipment out to the asteroid belt.
Good God, he thought, what a bureaucratic nightmare that would be. If I didn't give this gear a good review, several companies -- hell, several governments -- would really get their panties in a wad.
That thought brought a grin on Trill's face. A big one.
Pulling on his helmet and gloves, Trill climbed out of his small craft and half walked/ half bounded toward the cable the ore carriers followed. What he saw when he arrived stunned him. In six months on the moon, he had seen just about every kind of mechanical failure imaginable. Looking down at the electronic mess he found today, he knew he was witness to something new to the lunar surface: sabotage.
His black, white, and gray surroundings suddenly took on a much more sinister hue.
"Base?" Trill whispered into the microphone in his helmet. "Trill to base . . ."
There was no reply.
"Armstrong Base," Trill repeated. His clenched jaw barely moved. "I have a situation. Please respond."
"Captain Thrilling," came a voice from the Com-center. "What's the scoop, big guy?"
Blacky McGee. Trill and Blacky had shipped up on the same transport six months ago. A nice enough fellow, but the man didn't seem to know when it was time to screw around and when it was time to be serious.
"Listen," began Trill, "there's --"
Motion.
At the very edge of his peripheral vision Trill caught sight of something moving. Something that didn't belong.
"Hold on," he said, sinking into a crouch.
Edging closer to the ore carriers, Trill crept alongside the row. Stopping at the third car -- the point where he had seen movement -- he eased himself up the side and over the top. And found himself staring down the barrel of an odd-looking pistol.
Trill's stomach felt like someone had just dropped a black hole into it. What he found himself thinking, however, was, Hnnnh, somebody actually modified a gun so the trigger design would work with a space-suit glove. Who in the world would . . .
Eyes traveling up the arm of the small man holding the gun, Trill quickly found his answer. The gunman was wearing a Chinese space-suit.
Two years ago, the Indo-American coalition had built a lunar elevator at one of the Lagrange Roots -- a point on the moon that passed directly below the L1 and L2 Lagrange Points, where the orbital and gravitational forces between the Earth and moon balanced out. Now India and America shared a 60,000-kilometer long carbon-nanotube tether, or "beanstalk" as the men at Armstrong Base called it. It was ideal for launches through L1 toward Earth. Once that was built, they assumed that the Chinese would fade from the new space race the same way the Russians had when America landed the first men on the moon. They were as mistaken as Aristotle when he insisted that Earth was the center of the universe.
Because the Chinese went ahead and committed the time, money, and people, to build their own elevator on the dark side of the moon. Rumor had it that the project had cost them twenty-four lives (a rumor the Chinese government vehemently denied), along with the billions of yen they openly acknowledged. And the Chinese had made their tether 70,000 km. long, enabling them to launch through L2 while facing Mars and the asteroid belt, which turned out to be the real prize in this new space race. Because whoever got to Mars first, controlled the easiest access point to the crystalline treasure recently discovered in the asteroid belt -- a previously unknown mineral which could be used to manufacture computer chips that operated 4,000 times faster than anything previously known to man.
So what had started out as a minor space race between the Chinese and the Americans -- nothing more than a pissing war between modern-day empires -- had turned into something far more serious. Trillions of dollars and entire nation's economies were at stake.
"Trilling!" barked a voice.
Trill jumped, then immediately realized the booming voice was coming from inside his spacesuit's helmet. Colonel Kirtley.
Despite Trill's sudden movement, the Chinese astronaut did not fire. He didn't even flinch.
"Trilling," Kirtley repeated. "What the devil is going on out there?"
The Chinese astronaut waggled his gun, then brought one finger to where his lips were behind the mirrored visor, in the universal signal for silence. Then he punched a button below the keypad and activated a small screen built into the arm of his suit. It displayed a message that read: Mr. Trilling, I need to talk to you privately.
Trill looked at the gun and wondered how much choice he had in the matter.
Then it hit him. The note was addressed directly to him.
Mr. Trilling . . .
How in the world could the Chinese know who he was?
"Sorry about that, Colonel," Trill said into his helmet microphone. "This is going to take a little longer than usual. Just wanted to give you a heads up."
"Blacky said you had a 'situation.' Sa
id it sounded like something was wrong. Is there?"
The saboteur gestured at Trill with his pistol. Obviously the man could hear and understand their transmissions.
"No, sir," Trill said. "Everything's fine."
The Chinese astronaut gestured again, directing Trill to walk towards the maintenance dome.
Trill complied, and when the two astronauts rounded the near side, they arrived at a gigantic vehicle, almost half the size of the dome. Trill stopped in his tracks. He looked from the vehicle to the gun-toting saboteur and back to the vehicle.
Was he being kidnapped? Damn. Then again, he was the president's nephew.
He curled his fingers, making his hands into angry hammers. About to hurl himself at his captor, Trill envisioned the Chinese man's message again. Mr. Trilling, I want to talk.
Talk, the message said. Privately.
What in hell was going on here? Trill didn't know; but the more he thought about it, the less it felt like a kidnapping. Whoever had written that note had covered everything. It said so much with so few words -- if you scratched beneath the surface. Besides, Trill knew that hurling himself wildly about wasn't going to get answers, it was going to get him hurt or killed.
Control yourself, he thought, then control the situation.
Nevertheless, Trill's heart raced as he followed the Chinese astronaut into the craft's airlock.
Once they were both inside and the hatch was sealed, the light on the autocycler switched from red to green. The Chinese astronaut removed his helmet, freeing a cascade of long, silky black hair.
The saboteur, Trill suddenly saw, was a woman. She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and locked onto Trill with her eyes. Even with his helmet on, Trill knew it had to be obvious he was staring.
"What's the matter, Mr. Trilling?" the woman said in barely accented English. "Your country has female astronauts, too."
Trill closed his eyes. I'm an American, he said silently to himself. She's Chinese, and I'm an American.
An American man who had been on the moon for half a year, with ten sweaty, hairy men and a gang shower. It had been six months since Trill had seen a woman.
He closed his gaping mouth and snapped off his helmet.
Pulling off her right glove, the woman extended her hand. "My name is Wing Fei."
Trill shook her hand. He moved very slowly.
"It's okay, Mr. Trilling, you can speak freely here. This vehicle's insulation has the effect of dampening electronic signals. Without an external antenna, no one can pick up a signal from your radio."
Trill's hand drifted unconsciously to his ear, tugging on the lobe.
"Trill," he said absently. "Everybody calls me Trill."
Wing began pulling off her spacesuit, stripping down to a black body suit. As he watched, he wondered how, even with the bulky suit, he had ever thought she was a man. He had to work very hard to keep from staring at her breasts and legs. She was a beautiful woman.
How much had that beauty hindered her, Trill wondered, and how much had she used it to advance her career?
Trill jerked his head to one side. Snap out of it, fool. You can't afford to let yourself be distracted. Get control of yourself.
Striking the traditional at-ease stance, he said, "More than twenty minutes went by from the time the ore carriers shut down until the time I found you. You could have easily gotten away -- if sabotage was your only intention. Your little stunt was designed to lure me out."
Wing sat on a small bench and crossed her slender legs, applauding lightly as if Trill had just made a thirty-foot putt.
"Splendid deductive reasoning, Mr. Trilling."
Trill's expression hardened. "This is about my aunt, isn't it?"
Wing placed a hand between her breasts and a doe-eyed expression on her face. "What ever do you mean?"
Trill had little patience with people who played games. He unclasped his hands and took an aggressive step forward.
Wing leaned to her left and rested her hand near the pistol.
That brought Trill to a halt. "Look," he said. "I came here quietly, peacefully, because you invited me. Now tell me what the hell you want or I'm out of here, gun be damned."
The change in Wing's face was subtle but unmistakable. She believed him. Good. He wasn't sure he believed it, but it had seemed like the right thing to say.
"All right, Mr. Trilling," Wing replied. She rose to her feet and took a step toward him. "This has nothing to do with your aunt. I need your help."
Trill softened a little. That was not what he had expected. "What's the problem?"
"I'm the chief engineer at our station, and our elevator's maglev propulsion system has been malfunctioning for weeks. If I don't get it fixed by tomorrow, they're going to send me home in disgrace. I'll probably be cut from the space program. I need help fixing our elevator."
"Why would I help you? You're the competition. The enemy."
Wing looked at the wall, then at the door to the airlock. Then down at the floor.
"Mr. Trilling," she said, "my salary as an astronaut supports thirty-four relatives in the Hunan Province. If I lose this job, those people will starve to death. I would do anything to prevent that from happening. She ran her eyes up and down his body. "Anything."
Trill studied Wing. Thirty-four relatives? Trill knew enough about China's economic situation to believe that one government salary could support that many farmers and factory workers. He sighed.
"So let me get this straight. You sabotaged our maglev cable and ore carriers, figuring whoever came out to repair it would be your best bet for help with your beanstalk?"
Wing nodded, mostly with her eyes. Dark brown eyes. Begging for help.
Trill shrugged and sighed again. "Look, I feel sorry for you and your predicament, so I won't report this encounter. But you know I can't help you. Our countries are a hair's breadth from war."
Wing softened her voice, as if someone might overhear. She half-whispered, "I know. That's why I have to sneak you in. It's as important for me to keep this a secret as for you."
Trill's voice remained well above her conspiratorial level. "Which part of no are you not understanding? If your people find me anywhere on your base station, let alone sniffing around your beanstalk, they're going to shoot me on sight and then mail my corpse to the White House. No. No freaking way. No, no, no, no."
A nanosecond later a thought hit Trill.
"And even if -- and that's a damn big if -- but even if I manage to avoid your people, what in the world would I tell my people when I get back? I can't go missing for twelve hours and then just say to the base commander, 'Gee, I knew I should have made that left at Albuquerque . . .'"
Wing smiled. "No, you're going to tell your nice Colonel Kirtley that you found a way to infiltrate our base and study first-hand not only our elevator, but our entire layout. And it will be true. That's got 'hero' written all over it. They'll probably even fly you home and give you a parade through New York City."
She paused to let that picture settle in. Then she added, "The top level of New York City . . ."
This time Trill could not prevent himself from smiling. The hell with taking control of some minor situation in an over-sized cruiser. He was going home a hero. And no one -- no one -- could claim that it was because of his aunt.
"You're sure you can get me in without getting caught?" he asked.
With those words came a stab of guilt. Wing had tried to appeal to his better nature, but thirty-four human lives hadn't been enough motivation for him.
But personal gain? That had moved him. The realization ate at him.
Trill would never have believed Wing's cumbersome-looking vehicle could have moved at the speeds it did, but it turned out to be more rocket-sled than cruiser, and they arrived at the Chinese base station in just under three hours.
The extreme vibrations of the rocket sled reminded Trill of the old days, before carbon-nanotubes had made space elevators possible. Back then people went in
to space with chemical booster rockets. It hadn't been that long ago that Trill made his first flight into space on just such a vehicle. That was the first time the stars had been transformed from twinkling pinpricks of light into a multifaceted explosion of brilliance. That day Trill had felt as if he could reach out and snatch up a handful of stars, and his longing to do so had been intense. It was why he became an astronaut: that sense of wonder and awe. Now that sense of wonder had been reduced to little more than a memory.
As they neared the Chinese base, Wing's vehicle locked onto a homing beacon and they were automatically guided the rest of the way in.
"Stay in the back of the craft," Wing told Trill as she brought the ship into a docking bay. "I'll clear the way, then come back for you."
Forty minutes later Wing was nowhere to be seen and Trill's madly churning stomach had nothing to do with hunger.
Where in the name of Hare Krishna had that woman gotten to? It occurred to Trill that her sad, sad story might have been a ruse to get him to come along quietly. But he didn't believe that. If the Chinese were going take him hostage, they would have done so before now. Long before.
No, even when Wing had stuck a gun in his face, Trill had never really felt threatened. He wasn't sure what she was up to, but it never felt malevolent.
Sitting in the back of Wing's rocket-sled, Trill wondered again where Wing was. He wasn't thinking about her breasts and legs anymore, like he had been when he first saw her in her black body suit. At this point, he would have been thrilled to see a shoulder blade. A big toe. Anything. Because the longer Wing was gone, the more likely Trill was to leave the cruiser and start exploring, and that could only lead to trouble. Fifteen minutes later, his patience was spent and his head was out the door. Idiot, he thought. But it didn't stop him.
He was instantly greeted by a recording of Vishti's voice emanating from within his helmet.
"Captain Jack Trilling," Vishti's voice repeated over and over. "Come in. Please respond. Captain Jack Trilling. Come in. Please respond."
