by Allen Steele
Her thin lips pursed disapprovingly, as if she disdained using an informal tone of address. “I need to speak to you, please,” she said softly. “In private.”
He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Sure, sure, but can it wait? I need to take a break. This meeting …”
“I understand.” She shook her head. “But no, it can’t wait. It’s very important that we speak at once.”
Before Lester could respond, McGraw dipped her right hand into the pocket of her jumpsuit and pulled out a small leather folder. Stepping a little closer, she hid the case in her palm and flipped it open to quickly show him what was inside.
The folder contained the silver oval badge of a field officer from NASA’s Space Operations Enforcement Division. She held it open just long enough for Lester to see the badge, then snapped it shut and tucked it back in her pocket.
“As I said, we need to speak immediately,” the new Chief of Security whispered, in a tone which implied that it was no longer a request. “Will you accompany me to MainOps, please?”
The Vacuum Suckers (Interview. 3)
Anne Noonan; former Skycorp lunar-tug payload specialist:
What were we doing, hijacking Spam-cans? (pause) Good question, and since I no longer work for Skycorp I don’t think I’ll get in any trouble for answering it, but let me tell you about the Vacuum Suckers first, okay? Maybe that’ll help explain things.
The Vacuum Suckers are the Hells Angels of space.… Maybe that makes you nervous, but that’s about the best way to describe them, because they sure ain’t the Kiwanis Club. The way I’ve heard the story, the club got started on Olympus Station about five or six years ago by some beamjacks working on the second SPS project. There was a blowout caused by a collision with some space junk, and two of the bunkhouse modules were holed. One blew out all at once and the other developed a slow leak, and there were three beamjacks trapped in the module which was losing its atmosphere. There was no seal-kit in their module, they didn’t have any hardsuits or rescue balls, and the hatch to the pressurized module on the other side of them was jammed. They were capable of opening the hatch to the adjacent bunkhouse, but that was the one which had completely lost pressure. The module on the far side of that bunkhouse was pressurized.
Anyway, it’s the kind of situation which calls for desperate thinking, and that’s exactly what these guys did. They deliberately blew the hatch on their own module, got themselves shot through the unpressurized module, and managed to open the hatch to the opposite module and get in before their lungs ruptured. They were exposed to hard vacuum for almost a full minute, which in theory is the absolute maximum for human tolerance. Somebody told me that Arthur C. Clarke once wrote a sci-fi story based on nearly the same premise, but that was even before the first satellite was put in orbit. Nobody had ever tried it in real life.
At any rate, they pulled it off and survived to tell about it. It took a lot of guts, and it got into the record books and so forth, and pretty soon people started calling these guys “the vacuum suckers.” So that’s how the club got started. (shrugs) You can take it with a grain of salt, but that’s the story I’ve heard.
Anyway, it’s sort of a fraternal club for pro spacers. Membership is strictly invitational. By tradition, you have to have two other working spacemen nominate you for membership, and it’s only open to people who are actively employed in a hands-on capacity in space or in ground-support, so that’s why you don’t see any administration types wearing Suckers colors. And you have to have exhibited … well, “grace under pressure” is probably the right phrase, although Mighty Joe used to call it “having more balls than brains.” Not everyone who works up there gets invited into the Suckers, but once you’re in, you’re a member for life.…
(Nods and jabs a finger) And the Vacuum Suckers are the closest-knit group up there, pal. I don’t care what anyone says about ’em. Out there, there’s no one I’d rather have working with me. That’s the gospel truth. A Sucker will risk his or her own ass to keep you alive, and that’s more than can be said for anything ASWI will do for you in a pinch. Especially the union … they’re worthless as far as I’m concerned. You can quote me on that. The Suckers don’t have union dues, they don’t give you a card or send you a newsletter, but at least you can count on them, which is more than I can say for Asswipe.
Hmm? How did I get in? Naw, it wasn’t for doing anything spectacularly brave, except maybe for flying with Mighty Joe. Or maybe just for being on the crew of a lunar tug, which is a hell of a hard assignment in the first place, even when your pilot isn’t certifiable. (shrugs) I handled cargo for five flights of the Beautiful Dreamer without bitching about Joe’s driving, and that was enough to earn the respect of him and Rusty Wright, the co-pilot. They were both in the Suckers, so they nominated me for membership. (grins) I have to admit, I was touched when I was told I was in. Gender notwithstanding, it meant I was one of the boys.
Like I said, it’s not an official club by any means. No written charter or secret handshake or similar bullshit. There’s just that embroidered patch that goes on the back of your jumpsuit or vest. That, and the respect of your fellow spacers. You’re a pro among pros when you’re in the Suckers. Skycorp and the other companies kind of wish we’d go away, and ASWI has never been crazy about us, either, though there was never anything they could legally do to break up the club or prevent Suckers from being hired or rehired.
(Grins) Not that they don’t try. We’ve sort of got a rep for breaking rules. Like, there was a time when the guys at the Mars base wanted some real turkey for Christmas dinner, and they …
Hmm? Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to get carried away like that. I mean, you put a tape recorder in front of me and it’s just talk talk talk, y’know, right?… Okay, it happened like this.…
Skycorp cut nonessential supplies to Descartes Station following the purge. You know about that, right? Huntsville said it was to preserve payload mass for shipment of volatiles, but nobody was buying that shit. The company was just going it as a punitive sort of thing, to get back at the moondogs for messing around while Fisk was in charge, and there wasn’t a thing our good-for-nothing union could do about it since there was this little clause in the contract which gave Skycorp the right to make cutbacks in nonessential supplies. Shows how much our union reps screwed us over when they were negotiating our contract, doesn’t it?
Anyway, this meant that we weren’t being sent anything except the bare necessities—food, medical supplies, some parts replacements which we couldn’t salvage from Honest Yuri’s, that sort of thing. I mean, it wasn’t as if they were trying to starve their employees on the Moon (laughs).… Okay, so they were, or at least it felt that way since the cutback mostly affected recreational materials. No new books or magazines or comics were getting to us, f’rinstance. CD’s of current movies were no longer coming our way. Harry Drinkwater, the DJ at the radio station … that’s Moondog McCloud’s real name … wasn’t getting new music for his show. Since they had taken to reinforcing the regulations against liquor, our usual contacts at the Cape couldn’t slip a few bottles into the Spam-cans scheduled for the outbound LTV’s. Skycorp inspectors were now opening them up just prior to launch.
And sometimes the stuff which got designated as “nonessential” was just plain stupid. Some jerk in Huntsville apparently decided that it wasn’t important to send new brassieres to the female moondogs … y’know, as if the ones we had were made of some indestructible fabric … so bras got put on the list. Maybe that sounds trivial to you, but ask any woman you know how she feels about never getting new lingerie. I got by for several months wearing one of three bras every day, and I’m here to tell you that the goddamn things start to rot after a while.
Then we got word through the grapevine that the beamjacks on Skycan were still getting “nonessential” supplies, and that made us curious. Skycan had more goof-offs in its crew than we ever had. So what were they doing, getting comics and movies and junk? So we got a couple of Suckers
who worked at the Cape to do some snooping around, and it turned out that some guys on Skycan who weren’t Suckers had managed to bribe an inspector at Skycorp’s SPC to overlook certain Spam-cans which were scheduled to be shipped by OTV to Olympus.
Now that really got us riled. I mean, if there’s anyone who should be pulling off a scam like that, it should be Vacuum Suckers, not some low-life short-timers on Skycan. (laughs) I mean, Jesus, the nerve of some people!
Anyway, as it turned out, at the end of one work shift there were a few of us sitting around a table in the rec room, griping about what we had just learned. Somebody says … and I’m not saying who it was … he says, “Gee, if there was only some way of getting their Spam-cans off their OTV’s and loaded onto our LTV’s.”
Well … (chuckles) that’s when Mighty Joe got up from the table and said that he had a phone call to make. And, to make a long story short, that’s how we got into the piracy business.
Does that answer your question?
8. Pirates
“Descartes Traffic, this is flight Delta Tango One-Two-One, standing by for launch.”
We copy, Delta Tango One-Two-One. Stand by for initiation of final countdown sequence, over.
Strapped into the pilot’s seat of the tug’s flight deck, Mighty Joe watched through the narrow canopy windows as the hardsuited ground-crew dragged the fuel lines away from the landing pad toward the nearby LO2/LH2 tanks. One of them turned and gave him a quick thumbs-up; Joe returned the gesture, then looked at his co-pilot. Russ Wright was moving down the prelaunch checklist, switching on the auto-abort sequencer and checking the pressurization of the fuel tanks. Without looking up, Rusty also gave him a thumbs-up: The tug was ready for flight.
“Jesus, what takes them so long?” Joe muttered impatiently. He gazed through the canopy again, this time to peer at the turretlike MainOps tower on top of Subcomp A. Always another frigging hold-up. He blew out his cheeks in disgust, then clicked on the radio again. “Descartes Traffic, this is the Beautiful Dreamer, on standby for launch,” he repeated. “C’mon, guys, we’ve got a schedule to meet here. What are you waiting for?”
The voice that came back over the comlink was the same, unchanged monotone. Delta Tango One-Two-One, please remain on standby, over. Launch authorization is not, repeat, is not given. Over.
Joe glared at the MainOps tower. “Blow it out your—”
“Oh hell, Joe, cut it out.” Wright stretched forward against his harness to hastily squelch Mighty Joe’s radio, cutting the pilot off in mid-curse. The pilot glared at him. “Just cool off, willya?” Rusty added, tipping back his Giants baseball cap as he settled into his seat. “I could use another few minutes anyway. I’m having trouble getting electrical out of backup mode.”
“What’s the problem?” Mighty Joe leaned forward and checked the main console between their seats. The status light on the electrical system showed that internal power was still coming from the backup system instead of the main batteries. Joe snapped the toggle switch back and forth a few times. “Aw, it’s the goddamn Main Bus A again,” he muttered. “Looky … cut off Main A for a second, switch over to Main B, cut in the backups, then switch back to Main A. That should jimmy the thing.”
Rusty shrugged, but followed Joe’s suggestion. The status light instantly switched on to main batteries. “Nice trick,” Rusty said. “I thought you told them to get Main A fixed.”
“I did.” Mighty Joe slouched back in his seat, absently pulling the bill of his Gatorama cap over his eyes. “They got some reject from the Young Astronauts maintenancing this thing now who doesn’t know how to read the service manuals.” He laced his fingers together, cracked his knuckles, and sighed. “I swear to God, this whole fucking operation’s gone into the toilet since they canned Fisk. Can’t get off the fucking ground without a fucking act of Congress.…”
“Gee, Joe, you’ve got such a way with words.” Anne Noonan, watching from the passenger seat behind them, tightened her harness. “You know, they say guys who use the word ‘fuck’ all the time are supposed to have male potency problems.”
Rusty looked over his shoulder at the cargo specialist; Joe just stared straight ahead at the lighted dashboard. “Keep it up, sweetheart,” he growled, “and you’re getting out to push.” He shook his head in disgust. “Come to think of it, it might help.”
“You know, you’re always a grouch when you’re in a hurry,” Wright observed. He double-checked the CRT screen in front of him, then touched his own headset. “Descartes Traffic, this is Delta Tango One-Two-One. We’ve got Go status for launch. I repeat, that’s green for Go. On standby and requesting permission for launch, over.”
There was a long pause, then the voice of the MainOps TRAFCO came over their headphones. Roger that, Delta Tango One-Two-One. You have permission to launch. Countdown initiates at sixty seconds, on my mark. Three … two … one … mark. T minus sixty seconds and counting. Over.
“Now that’s more like it.” Mighty Joe glanced at his co-pilot. “How did you do that?”
Rusty smiled. “You just have to learn to ask politely, that’s all.”
“Fat chance,” Noonan said under her breath.
“I heard that, crew slut,” Joe growled.
“Pay attention to the controls, monkey dick,” she replied easily. She absently brushed back her short black hair and sighed. “I swear, one of these days I’m going to find a real pilot to fly with.”
Mighty Joe ignored the final remark from his cargo specialist. He switched on his radio again. “Thank you, Descartes Traffic,” he said with exaggerated politeness. “Delta Tango One-Two-One on final countdown.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he added, “And it’s about time, you lazy assholes.”
He rested his right hand on the attitude control stick and ran his eyes across the array of status lights and computer screens to make sure all systems were copacetic for launch. Rusty reached to the manual abort switch and flipped back its red-striped cover, getting it ready in case of a launch emergency and the remote possibility that the onboard computer’s auto-abort sequence might jam. Unlike the LTV flight crews, no one aboard the Beautiful Dreamer wore VR helmets during launch or landing, even though Mighty Joe or Rusty could easily patch into the tug’s virtual-reality computer subsystem. VR was kid stuff, too much like playing a computer game; any pimplehead back home could buy a game disk that would do the same thing. A real pilot relied on his knowledge, his eyes, his hands, and his gut instincts. Maybe it was the old-fashioned way, but that’s what flying was all about. You can’t be a true Vacuum Sucker by dicking around with candy-ass cybershit.
Four … three … two … one …
“Ignition and liftoff,” Mighty Joe said, and shoved forward the thrust bar. The tug’s four Rockwell main engines ignited soundlessly, white-hot jets of flame pressing against the scorched mooncrete pad, and the squat spacecraft rose quickly into the black sky.
Inside the flight deck, there was barely a sensation of movement. In the near-vacuum of the Moon, the tug soared upwards with the smooth, effortless ease of an ascending elevator, rocking only slightly in its ascent. The Dreamer punched through the thin, localized haze of dust held above the ground by the Moon’s negligible atmosphere, thrown up by the base’s mining operations. Another fraction of an inch of dust was added to the tug’s outer hull; even out here, industrial activity was polluting the natural environment.
Mighty Joe held the attitude controller steady, guiding the Dreamer upwards as he stared at the three-dimensional flight path painted for him on the navigational computer’s CRT screen. Ten miles, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five miles … he glanced out his window for a glimpse of Descartes Station dwindling below him, a cluster of regolith-covered molehills surrounded by dingy gray lunar highlands. Rusty Wright’s voice was a reassuring drone, telling him that fuel pressurization and electrical systems were nominal, beginning the 30-second countdown to main-engine cutoff. Mighty Joe nodded, smiling in spite of himself. This was the rush for w
hich he positively lived: taking a hunk of graphite-polymer, steel, and aluminum, and riding the big ugly fuck into space. And they say you can’t have fun on the Moon anymore.…
Exactly half a minute later, Joe reached out and pulled down the engine-control bar. The dull, subaudible vibration of the engines slowly grumbled down to a stop. Rusty checked the computer screen and the gyroscope. “Okay,” he reported. “MECO complete. Ascent continuing, bearing X-ray forty-four, Yankee minus two-zero, Zulu nine-niner-six. Coming up the pike for orbital insertion and everything’s just A-OK.”
We copy, Delta Tango One-Two-One, Descartes Traffic responded. Your launch looked good. Sorry for the delay, gentlemen. We had a software glitch that needed correction down here. Over.
Mighty Joe snorted and cupped his mike with his left hand. “Somebody had to visit the john,” he said to his crew. He uncovered the mike again. “Roger that, Descartes Traffic, we fully understand your problem. Beautiful Dreamer on course for orbit and rendezvous with AOMV Collins, over.”
We copy, Beautiful Dreamer. Thank you for your indulgence. Hearing that, Joe laughed out loud. There was a short pause before the TRAFCO’s voice resumed, sounding slightly miffed. Confirm that AOMV Collins is in standard orbit Lima November one-zero-zero-nine. Repeat, that’s Lima November one-oh-zero-niner. Should be coming up over the horizon now. Over.
Wright carefully typed the orbital parameters into the navaids computer’s keypad. Mighty Joe checked the readout, making certain the coordinates were correctly entered, then snapped the autopilot’s toggles. “We copy, Descartes Traffic,” he replied. “Dreamer on course for Lima November one-zero-zero-niner. Thank you very much and we’ll be signing off for now, if you don’t mind. Catch you on the flip side. Delta Tango One-Two-One over and out.”
He switched off the radio. Fortunately, NASA regulations permitted him to cease radio communications with the base when he felt like it, so he could eliminate the distraction of endless chatter with TRAFCO. “And good riddance to all that happy shit,” he muttered. “Okay, let’s see about bringing home the goodies.”
