by Allen Steele
“Then we can’t lose,” Rusty Wright said.
Lester shook his head. “Oh, no, we can lose all right. I can think of a half-dozen things even a successful illegal strike can do to our benefits and bonuses.…”
“What hasn’t the company done to our benefits and bonuses already?” another moondog yelled. “We’ve met the six-week quota and they still haven’t kept their part of the bargain! If it was any worse, we’d qualify as slave labor!”
Once again, there were murmurs of agreement. Lester held up his hands for quiet. “Look,” he said once the room had settled down, “it’s not a black-and-white situation, calling an illegal strike like this. It can swing any which way. But we’re already in a no-win situation, so I can’t imagine how it can get much worse.…”
“An RDF squad from the 1st Space landing here and shooting up the place could make it a whole lot worse,” Quack pointed out.
Lester smiled and, looking over at the search-and-rescue chief, held up a finger. “Maybe so, but I’ve got some ideas of my own in that contingency—some things we could do to defend ourselves. We could—”
He started to elaborate, then thought better of it. The last thing he wanted to do was give anyone a false sense of security. He stopped, and thrust his hands into his pockets. “Look,” he murmured, looking down at his shoes, “I’ve gone on too long already. Mighty Joe’s your strike leader, so maybe I ought to give the floor back to him. But I just want to say …”
Suddenly, he found himself without words, even though he knew what he wanted to say: Whatever you do, please, don’t let yourselves get hurt, because I can’t bear to have another death on my conscience. I’ll do whatever I can to help, but I won’t permit any of you to get killed, because I’ve done that once already.…
He looked around the mess hall, at the men and women whom he had bossed for the past six weeks. He couldn’t tell them about a ghost he had met only a few days earlier.
“I’ll help you in whatever way I can,” he stammered. “Maybe I’m the bastard you love to hate. Maybe I’m still the enemy to some of you guys, but I’m on your side, just as long as you don’t …”
He couldn’t say anything further. “That’s all,” he finished. “Thanks for listening.”
He ducked his head again and began walking back to his chair.
There was utter silence until he sat down again. He barely felt Monk Walker patting him on the shoulder, and he didn’t look up when Mighty Joe Young called for a show of hands for those in favor of a strike. It wasn’t until he raised his own arm and heard the whooping and howling that he looked up again and saw that, with the sole exception of Monk Walker, every man and woman in the room had raised their hands.
It was nearly unanimous. He let out his breath and slowly shook his head, feeling elated and frightened at the same time.
God help them, they were going on strike.
Front Page News (Pressclips.5)
Excerpted from The New York Times (on-line edition); August 19, 2024; headline: “LUNAR BASE WORKERS VOTE FOR STRIKE”
HUNTSVILLE, Ala., Aug. 18—Skycorp workers employed at the Descartes Station mining facility on the Moon voted today to hold an illegal strike, sources at the space company’s headquarters confirmed today. The strike, which became effective as of 6 P.M. Greenwich mean time, is in protest over Skycorp’s alleged plans to sell the lunar base’s capital assets to the Japanese space firm Uchu-Hiko Kabushiki-Gaisha, according to a statement issued directly to several news organizations, including the Times, from the striking workers.
According to the unsigned statement, which was faxed from Descartes Station via satellite, the vote to strike was “nearly unanimous” by the base’s 110-person work force. In part, the statement reads: “Until Skycorp, ASWI, and Uchu-Hiko are ready to negotiate directly with us regarding the continuance of our employment on the Moon and overall future of the base, we have no choice but to shut down the mining, processing, manufacturing and exportation of all lunar-derived materials.”
The statement claims that the strikers have “lost all faith in the ability of our union to fairly represent our interests in these matters.” It also accused the union, the Amalgamated Space Workers International (ASWI), of “conspiring” with Skycorp to “undermine the members of Local 7 in order to fatten their own pockets and meet the union’s own short-term interests.”
Spokespersons from both Skycorp and ASWI deny charges of collusion against the members of ASWI Local 7 and claim that the strike is illegal because it violates a “no-strike” clause in the current union contract reached two years ago between the company and ASWI Local 7, which is Descartes Station’s local board of the spaceworkers union.
“We cannot negotiate in good faith with the strikers because they haven’t acted in similar good faith with us,” said Holly D’Amato, a spokesperson for Skycorp at the press conference at which the strike was officially confirmed by the company. “When they’re ready to call off their strike and be legally represented again by ASWI, then we’ll discuss their real or imagined grievances.”
Ms. D’Amato would not comment on the strikers’ allegation that Skycorp was planning to sell Descartes Station to Uchu-Hiko, other than to say that the lunar base’s future “is currently under review by the corporation’s board of directors and its major stockholders.” It was disclosed last Friday that the lunar base’s permaice reserves, located at Byrd Crater at the Moon’s north pole, had fallen critically short. This in turn caused Skycorp’s price-per-share on the New York Stock Exchange to plummet by an average of 15 points. It has sparked rumors that Skycorp might divest itself of its capital assets on the Moon [see related story, page D-1].
William Alstead, a spokesperson for ASWI’s headquarters in Washington D.C., said that the strikers’ accusation of collusion between Skycorp and the union was “absolute, unmitigated nonsense.” He said that, because the strike is in violation of the current agreement, “we can’t help but take sides with Skycorp in order to protect the current contracts between other union locals and Skycorp.”
In the last fiscal year, Descartes Station produced and exported 90,000 tons of finished material, including aluminum, glass, oxygen, and silicon-based solar cells. Ms. D’Amato said that this figure fell short of the base’s expected output of at least 115,000 tons, and that the base’s personnel had been “placed on probation” until a larger quota was delivered from them in the six-week period which ended on August 13, last Tuesday. She would not comment on whether the workers had met this quota by the deadline.
“Much of that quota is oxygen, which is necessary to support manned operations in Earth-orbital space,” Ms. D’Amato said, adding that much of that was sold by Skycorp to the U.S. government for its own operations. “The strikers should be warned that cutting off such a life-critical resource may not be tolerated by NASA.”
Public affairs officials of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration’s headquarters in Washington D.C. had no immediate comment on the strike.…
From The New York Times (on-line edition); August 19, 2024. Sidebar headline: “Space Marines Placed on Alert”
VANDENBERG AFB, Calif., Aug. 18 (Associated Press)—Unofficial sources at the U.S. Air Force Space Command here stated today that the 1st Space Infantry, U.S. Marine Corps., has been placed on full alert in connection with the work-stoppage at Descartes Station on the Moon. Eyewitnesses at the military space shuttle launch facility here say that the USAF shuttle Concord has been rolled out for launch.
The same unofficial sources also say that the U.S.S. lunar transport Valley Forge is being prepared for launch from Earth orbit in the event that “military intercession becomes necessary.” Official sources at Vandenberg AFB and the Pentagon would neither confirm nor deny the reports.
21. Full Moon
“Okay, whoa!” Mighty Joe snapped into his headset mike. “Swing left, left … a little more, just a little …”
Wanna be a little more specific? Seki Koyama’s
voice said in his headset. I mean, a “little” can be a foot, or two feet, or a yard or …
“Just hold it. You’re doing fine.” Mighty Joe glanced down at a hand-sketched diagram lying on top of the console, then peered through the windows of the traffic control cupola. Out beyond the landing pads, the bulldozers were slowly shoving mounds of regolith into place, gradually forming steep, narrow berms of rock and soil. “Just push it in now. Make it as high as you can.…”
Okay. Roger that. The blade of the nearest ’dozer dipped to the ground and began to inch forward, shoving more gravel and dirt in front of it. Koyama, riding Dozer Three, was building barriers to block the hangar doors of the spacecraft maintenance building; the three landing pads themselves were presently occupied by the two tugs and one of the LRLT’s, effectively preventing the pads from being used by the 1st Space. Koyama stopped about fifty yards from the edge of Pad Two and the eastern corner of Subcomp B, just below the vehicle ramps of the garage. How’s that?
Joe looked again at the defense plan he and Lester had drawn last night. “Close enough,” he replied. “Keep working on it. When you’re done there, go down and do the same thing between Pad One and Pad Two. Be careful of the storage tanks, though. I don’t want …”
You don’t want me to hit ’em. Right. Koyama was beginning to sound exhausted. No wonder; he had been out on EVA for the past four hours. Operating a ’dozer was a bitch even out in the regolith field; working in the close confines of the base itself, surrounded by equipment and buildings, was enough to make anyone gripe. Mighty Joe made a mental note to get a replacement for Seki; perhaps he could get another heavy-metal pusher out there soon to spell him.…
Yeah. Fat chance of that. It was 2100 hours Monday; almost everyone had spent the last couple of days fortifying the base. Anyone who was still conscious was busy with something else. Mighty Joe Young stretched his aching back, feeling the hours he himself had spent in the cupola, bent over the diagram while supervising the erection of the barricades. Once again, he gazed around the southern perimeter of the base from his vantage point on top of Subcomp B. One ’dozer was building a long berm to block Airlocks One and Two; on the opposite side of the subcomplex, beyond Pad Three, another ’dozer was doing the same for Airlocks Five and Six. Once another berm was built between Pad One and Pad Three, the interior airlocks from the unpresterized spacecraft hangars, Three and Four, would be effectively barricaded.
Okay. So much for the main entrances to the base. But that still made the nukes vulnerable. The SP-100 nuclear power plants, located in the bottom of the crater at the southwestern periphery of the base, simply could not be adequately protected; their high radioactivity prevented anyone from approaching them in a hurry. Maybe the Marines could try shutting them down as a last resort.…
Naw, Joe thought, shaking his head. Even if they wanted to chance it, the nukes were at their lowest output right now. Since Descartes was in full-daylight at this time, the base was drawing most of its power from the solar farm, so shutting down the SP-100’s would not cause a critical loss of power. Even so, the seldom-used underground access tunnel which led from the base to the crater was being blocked from within, just in case the Marines tried to use that as a means of getting into the base. The grunts would have a hard time taking Descartes.
“Who are you kidding?” he muttered to himself, tiredly massaging his eyes with his fingertips. If and when the 1st Space landed—and Joe had no doubt that it was more of a matter of when than if—the barricades and blocked airlocks wouldn’t do much more than slow them down. Maybe it’s only going to be a small handful of them, he thought, and maybe we’ve got a few more cards up our sleeves … but if they want to shoot their way into the place, I don’t see how in the hell we’re going to stop ’em unless we shoot back. And there’s not so much as a slingshot in the whole goddamn—
His beltphone buzzed; Joe unclipped it and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Young here,” he muttered.
It’s Lester. The GM’s voice sounded snappish; it was vaguely comforting to know that Riddell was feeling the pressure as well. Did you get in touch with that crazy hermit pal of yours? Umm … Honest Yuri, or whatever he calls himself.
Young nodded despite the fact that Riddell couldn’t see him. “Yeah, I called him last night and told him what’s going on. I thought he should be filled in.”
What did he say?
“Not much of anything,” Joe replied, “but that’s typical of Yuri. Why, did he just get back to you?”
Yeah. He’s in a truck about a mile and a half north of here, coming in. Says he’s got something for us and wants you to meet him outside Airlock Five. You know what’s going on with him?
“No, I don’t.” Mighty Joe turned and peered to the north. Between the low hills, he could make out a distant pair of headlights moving toward the base. “He’s weird, but he’s okay. What did he say he had?”
Something about bringing us the Night Gallery, Lester replied, and Joe suddenly found himself grinning. Whatever that is. Do you have the foggiest notion what he’s …?
Joe laughed out loud. “I think I do,” he said. “Get Quack or somebody up here to run the show. I’m going below to put on a suit and go see him … um, and try to find Annie Noonan for me, okay? Get her to meet me in the ready-room for suit-up. I think I know what Yuri’s got in mind.”
Sure, but your girlfriend’s already on EVA, over in the north quadrant. Several moondogs in the north quad were working to place shields over the few exposed windows in Subcomp D. Joe wasn’t aware that Annie had volunteered for the job. I’ll get her to skip over and …
There was a pause. Joe heard background voices from Main-Ops. Looking over his shoulder, he could see indistinct figures moving through the windows of the control center. Lester’s voice returned a few moments later. Gotta run. Huntsville just came on the horn, and TRAFCO just said that something’s happening in cislunar space.…
“Shit!”
You got it, ace. I think it’s starting. Riddell’s voice had taken on an urgent tone. I’ll get Quack up there, but don’t waste any more time with this Yuri character than you have to. I think the countdown just started.
“Got it,” Mighty Joe said, but Lester had already clicked off. Joe hastily clipped the phone back on his belt, turned around and headed for the passageway leading to the EVA ready-room. Perhaps he shouldn’t be bothering with Honest Yuri, just when all hell was beginning to break loose. But he also had the sneaking suspicion that Yuri had something useful to offer them.
Okay, so he’s a mad genius, he thought as he ducked into the passageway. But right now, any kind of genius is better than none at all.
It wasn’t Arnie Moss who was on the phone from Huntsville this time. Nor was it Skycorp’s CEO, Dallas “Rock” Chapman, as Lester had anticipated. And that was definitely a bad sign.
You were, perhaps, expecting your friend Mr. Moss. Kenneth Crespin—polished and proper, neatly dressed in his habitual dark blue pinstripe suit—gazed calmly out of the screen on Riddell’s desk in MainOps. I regret to inform you that Mr. Moss’s employment with this company has been terminated. For the time being, I will be assuming his duties as vice-president of lunar operations.
Riddell tried not to let his anger show. Arnie had been fired, no doubt because of their phone conversation two days ago. Skycorp had a knack for finding out what their execs did behind the company’s back; the company’s internal security division had probably tapped his telephone at home. In hindsight, Lester should have expected Skycorp to do something like that. Crespin must be enjoying this, he thought. It gets him one seat closer to the president’s office. But he immediately tried to put Arnie out of his mind; it wouldn’t do any good for Crespin to see that he was irritated.
“Sorry to hear that, Kenneth,” he said, absently juggling a pen between his fingers. “But I was rather expecting to be hearing from Rock. Will he be joining us on a conference line?”
Crespin smiled with irritating smugne
ss. No, he will not. Mr. Chapman has delegated the matter at hand to me. I’m to make sure that this nasty piece of business is brought to a satisfactory conclusion. He paused, then added, Without its getting nastier, of course.
Lester wondered about that. Dallas Chapman was a former NASA astronaut; in fact, he had commanded the second lunar expedition, following the one that Riddell himself had piloted in ’05. Lester knew “Rock” Chapman well; he was very much a hands-on sort of executive, who normally would not have relinquished the responsibility of an in-space crisis such as this to a desk jockey like Ken Crespin. Some sort of a power struggle might be taking place in Huntsville. The board of directors could have taken the matter out of Rock’s hands and put Crespin in charge.
It made a certain kind of sense. Kenneth Crespin had been one of the few Skycorp senior executives who had weathered the Big Ear crisis of eight years ago without his reputation being tarnished, even though the spysat system had been largely his project. It was fairly common knowledge within the company that Crespin had survived because he had put lower-level associates on the front lines to take the bullets meant for himself. Perhaps the board was hoping that Crespin could handle the strike just as smoothly.
All of this was conjecture, though, and not doing Lester a damn bit of good right now. Below the dais, several people were clustered around the TRACFO and TELMU stations trying to track and identify the spacecraft which Descartes’ long-range radar had picked up in cislunar space at the same time that Crespin had called. Riddell was careful not to look in their direction.
“Getting nasty?” he replied smoothly. “Going on strike is a fine old American tradition, Kenneth. It’s not like a declaration of war, after all.”
You might just as well have hoisted the Jolly Roger, Crespin replied. Of course, some of your people are rather experienced at piracy, aren’t they? I suppose you’ll be taking hostages next.
