by Allen Steele
Where’s MainOps? a harsh, distorted voice squawked.
Mighty Joe stared back at the rifle. “Point that thing somewhere else, egg-man,” he growled. “Don’t you have any fucking manners?”
The gun didn’t move from his face. I don’t have time for bullshit, hairy. Tell me the way to MainOps or I’ll shoot your nuts off. The muzzle dipped a few inches until it was pointed straight at Young’s groin. One … two …
Mighty Joe wasn’t about to see whether or not the Marine was bluffing. “Take a left into the next tunnel and go straight until you reach the stairs,” he said quickly, pointing with his right hand. “Can’t miss it.”
The Marine said nothing, but the assault rifle swung away from Joe. As the mammoth exoskeleton turned ponderously, Joe shouted, “Hey! Robby the Robot!” The hulk hesitated for a moment. “Don’t shoot anybody, okay? It’s just a goddamn strike, for chrissakes.”
The Marine didn’t reply, but the massive arm holding the gun rose and fired a single round at the ceiling. Mighty Joe flinched as a recessed light fixture shattered, spraying glass across the corridor. Then the gun came down and the juggernaut lurched toward the open tunnel to Subcomp A; someone on the other side must have realized that it was pointless to seal its hatches as well.
Mighty Joe took a deep breath, lowered his arms, and touched the lobe of his headset. “Les, this is Joe. He’s coming your way.” He closed his eyes and let out his breath. “Sorry, man, but you’re on your own.”
Harry Drinkwater instinctively ducked as he heard the muffled gunshot from the other side of the niche door. He half-expected to hear more shots, or even the door itself being ripped straight off its hinges. Instead, he heard Mighty Joe saying something indistinguishable, then the heavy thunk-thunk-thunk of the Marine’s boots stomping through the dorm.
Behind him, the steady tapping of Willard DeWitt’s fingers on the keyboard continued unabated, as if the con man were completely unaware of the sudden violence occurring just outside his niche. Drinkwater glanced over his shoulder and once more saw the incredible concentration on DeWitt’s face. For almost twenty straight hours now, DeWitt had been hunched over the laptop computer, glued to the ever-shifting numbers on his screen, immersed in the separate reality of the high-stakes game he was playing. A game which was about to end …
The general-quarters alarm went off, a steady Klaxon which was meant to signal either a blowout or a solar storm. In this instance, Drinkwater knew what it meant. “We’ve run out of time, Willie,” he said softly. He sagged against the niche door and, looking down at the floor, shook his head. “Nice try, pal, but we didn’t make it. Might as well give up.”
For a moment, it seemed as if DeWitt hadn’t heard. Drinkwater was about to repeat himself, when DeWitt casually looked up from his screen—for the first time in many hours—and smiled beatifically.
“Skycorp’s made an offer,” he said with eerie calm. “Think we should take it?”
An instant was all it took for Tina McGraw to make her move.
Lana Smith and Casey Engel were in the EVA ready-room, standing watch on the airlocks; when the alarm went off, they both ran from the tunnel entrance toward the airlocks. The plan had been, in an emergency, to warn the Marines to seal their CAS armor, then to blow the outer hatches and jettison the RDF squad back out onto the surface.
McGraw wasn’t about to let that happen. She had been lurking in the access tunnel to Subcomp B for several minutes now, from the time she had heard that a fifth Marine had made it through the emergency airlock in Subcomp D. As soon as the two moon-dogs were away from the open tunnel hatch, she rushed through the entrance, aimed her Taser at Smith and squeezed the trigger. The 2,500-volt charge hit the suit tech smack in the back; she crumpled to the floor without a sound. Engel got a chance to turn and throw up his hands—yelling that hated nickname of hers—before Quick-Draw nailed him with the Taser’s second dart.
“The name’s Officer McGraw to you, buster,” she muttered as she jumped over his unconscious body. Running from one airlock to the next, she engaged the manual overrides; one at a time, the inner hatches slid open, freeing each trapped Marine.
Like imprisoned giants from a pulp fantasy novel, the armored Marines stepped through the open airlocks. The one who came out of Airlock One half-raised his assault rifle to cover her. Who are you? a metallic voice barked from his suit’s exterior speaker.
“Officer Tina McGraw, NASA Space Operations Enforcement Division,” she snapped back. “I’m the one who just set you free.” McGraw pointed toward the tunnel entrance. “Straight through the tunnel, down the corridor, and up the—”
We know the way. The massive CAS suits began moving toward the tunnel. Thanks for being a fink, McGraw. We’ll handle it from here.
“Uh … sure.” She watched as the four armored Marines tromped across the ready-room and moved in single file through the tunnel.
Where there had once been a heroic vision of herself leading the charge, retaking the base from the drunken, oafish rednecks who had humiliated her and dishonored her badge, there was now the abrupt sense of loneliness. A single word, from her own ally, had struck her with greater impact than a dart from her own Taser.
Fink …
The Taser dangled in her hand as she looked down at the still forms of her fellow moondogs.
“Track to target,” Lazy Jake told the Delaware’s fire-control system. The red crosshatch on his VR visor followed the movements of his eyes, shifting two degrees to the left, ascending five degrees to the right, and falling into place on the MainOps tower.
“Lock on target,” he murmured and the Crosshatch pulsed twice, signaling that the fire-control system would remain targeted on MainOps. The Delaware was whipping across the lunar wasteland, flying low and bearing down on Descartes Station. McAdams was on full auto now except for the stick, which he controlled inside the fist of his right hand: five miles up, seven miles downrange from target, and closing in like a bat out of hell. Take out MainOps and there goes the ball game.…
“Arm cannon,” he told the computer. An amber light flashed at the bottom of his visor. “Fire on my command.” A double click in his headphones. Just aim ’em and waste ’em, as his combat instructor once said. We’ll supply the body-bags.
He pushed the stick forward a little more. Altitude dropped to ten thousand feet, range to five miles. He checked the screen again. Classic. Coming in right out of the Sun. The last range of hills was coming up now. Descartes was now a big, easy bull’s-eye in front of his eyes.…
DeWitt pointed at the message on his screen and tsked. “One-point-five billion over the next three years and an option for purchase of product over the next ten fiscal years at a twenty-five percent discount?” he complained. “Who do they think they’re dealing with here?”
Drinkwater could barely hear him over the general-quarters alarm blaring through the ceiling speaker. “Just sign the deal already!” he shouted.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” DeWitt picked up his cold mug of coffee and took a sip. “I mean, the subsidiary stock option alone is worth …”
“I don’t give a righteous goddamn!” Drinkwater screamed. “Just make the deal!”
Willard DeWitt sighed and picked up his lightpen. Then he stared at the screen, shook his head, and dropped the pen back on the desktop. He placed his fingers on the keyboard once more. “One-point-twenty-five over three and a fifteen percent discount,” he murmured aloud as he typed in the new numbers. “And that’s our final offer.”
Harry started to yell at him again. Then he caught himself. It was their one last chance.…
“I’m heading for the radio station,” he blurted, wrenching open the door and bolting out into the hallway. “Call me there when you get something!” He stopped in the doorway and yelled back, “And forget about the fucking discount!”
“Airlocks One, Two, Five, and Six are opening!”
“Delaware downrange two miles!” Baker called out. “Altitude three thousand fe
et and closing!”
He was intently watching the blip on his screen, but already they could see a white dot moving past the rim of Cyrillus Crater on the far horizon. From behind Lester’s chair, Butch was watching the incoming lander. “I don’t like the looks of this,” she whispered.
“Neither do I.” Riddell was already out of his seat. He intuitively realized what was about to happen; the Delaware was about to make a strafing run, and MainOps was the most vulnerable target at Descartes Station.… “All right, everybody, clear the deck,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.
The command crew looked up at him uncertainly, but one more glance through the window was enough to make Riddell more insistent. “C’mon, folks!” he yelled, jumping off the dais and clapping his hands. “Move, move, move!”
That was enough. All at once, the men and women in MainOps were out of their seats and stampeding for the stairwell hatch. Lester grabbed Butch’s hand, yanked her in front of him, and shoved her headlong toward the hatch. “Get out of here!” he shouted at both her and the others. “Haul ass! Move!”
Butch grabbed his hand, but she was pulled away by the riptide of bodies. The next moment, she was swept out of sight through the stairwell hatch. In another few seconds, MainOps was deserted; Lester could hear the command team stampeding down the spiral stairs, yelling in confusion and fear at each other. He was the last to leave.
He headed for the hatch, then hesitated and glanced around the empty command center. One last look.…
“Goodbye,” Lester said softly. It was like saying farewell to an old friend. Then he jumped through the hatch, catching himself upon the railing at the top step. He whirled around and yanked back the cover of the emergency hatch control panel.
At that moment the fusillade of 30 mm shells ripped through the eastern windows of MainOps; there was a roar as all the glass panels blew out at once. Lester screamed and stabbed the button to close the hatch. His hair was whipped around his head by the tornado-like force of the blow; deafened by the roar, shielding his eyes with his hand, he caught a glimpse of glass, printout, pens, and potted plants being torn loose by the fogged escaping air, until the hatch irised shut, closing off the noise and fury.
Lester sagged against the railing. Christ almighty, that was too close.…
He let out his breath and brushed his hair out of his face; little pieces of glass fell out of his scalp and tinkled on the metal steps around his feet. Looking down, he saw that the stairwell was empty. MainOps was destroyed, but everyone who had been in there was safe.
Okay. So far, so good. He staggered down the steps, heading for Level One. Get everyone he could find into the solar shelters in Level Two, he thought dizzily. We’ve got food in there, medical supplies, an independent oxygen supply. Seal the doors and make our stand. Not over yet, sport. Like they say, it’s not over till the fat lady sings.…
He reached the bottom of the stairs, turned around and saw Butch, Tycho, Monk, Quack, Mighty Joe, the MainOps crew-hell, just about everyone he knew—crowded into the corridor in front of the rec room. At the far end of the corridor, he saw a Marine in CAS armor blocking the tunnel to Subcomp D, his assault rifle held in firing position.
And before Lester could say anything, the muzzle of another gun was jabbed into the base of his neck.
Freeze! an electronically filtered voice commanded.
“Like an ice cube,” Lester replied. He dared not move a muscle.
A hard metal claw reached from behind and roughly patted his sides. Okay, the Marine snapped. Turn around and put your hands on your head. Make it slow.
First you want me to freeze, then you want me to make it slow, Lester thought. Our relationship is definitely thawing.… But he didn’t voice his comments as he obediently clasped his hands on top of his skull and slowly turned to face the massive exoskeleton standing behind him.
“Greetings,” he said as pleasantly as he could. “Anything I can do for you?”
A few chuckles from the crew, but it definitely wasn’t a crowd-pleaser. The rifle didn’t move; it was now aimed straight at his throat.
There was a soft hiss of escaping air, like a rattlesnake clearing its throat, and the top hatch of the exoskeleton unsealed and slowly rose on its hinge, exposing the man buried within the armor. From deep within the upholstered bulk of the suit, a grim face with a trim black mustache peered out at him.
“Mr. Riddell,” the Marine said, “I’m Colonel Taylor Rainman, United States Marine Corps, 1st Space Infantry.”
“Glad to meet you finally,” Lester replied. “Hope you didn’t find our airlocks too uncomfortable.”
Rainman’s face remained stoical. “Not in the slightest,” he said drily, “but you should have taken my advice a few minutes ago. It would have saved us all a lot of grief.”
Lester shrugged. “You shoot up our command center, fire a couple of grenades into a bunkhouse, hold my friends at gunpoint, stick a rifle in my face …” He shrugged. “Hey, what’s a little violence between friends, right?”
The squad leader’s mouth twitched. “As I said, it could have been avoided if you had—”
“Hey, man, fuck this shit!” Tycho’s voice suddenly shouted out. “There’s two of them and at least thirty or forty of us here! Let’s take the fuckers and ream ’em with their own guns!”
Suddenly, there were shouts of assent, the rustle of people beginning to move. Quack grabbed Tycho from behind and pinned his arms back. Rainman’s head jerked up. The rifle swerved away from Lester to cover the crowd, and Lester saw the colonel’s forefinger dart back within the trigger guard.…
“No!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. Still keeping his hands on top of his head, he whirled around and faced the moondogs jammed into the corridor. “Nobody move! They’ve got us! Just give it up, okay?”
Once again, the crowd was shocked into still silence. Except for Tycho. “You’re going to let these bullet-head …?”
“Tycho, shut up,” Lester demanded, finding the big black man’s face in the mob. “You’re not doing anyone any good, so just clam it.…”
Tycho’s face remained defiant. “Where’s the rest of ’em, huh, Les?” he said. “I only see two of these robo-muthafuckers. What’s going on with the other three?”
“We’ve got the other three units sweeping the rest of the base,” Rainman said loudly, addressing the crowd. “Right now we’ve got another Marine standing watch on a group in the mess hall down the corridor behind us. The other two are working their way through the base, rounding up everyone else. The Delaware has landed outside the base and is backing us up. Your boss is right, ladies and gentlemen. Further resistance is pointless. We’ve assumed control, and nobody will be hurt if you—”
All at once, the sound of a blues saxophone jumped through the ceiling speakers: Noble “Thin Man” Watts yelling out the sassy first bars of “Skunky.” Every single person in the corridor jerked and stared up at the ceiling, as if expecting the bluesman himself to come down out of the rafters.
Holllllld everything! the voice of Moondog McCloud shouted from the speakers.
Rainman stared at Riddell. “What are you trying to pull now?” he demanded. Mouth agape, Riddell stared back at the colonel over the rifle barrel and shrugged helplessly.
Before things get a little too rough out there, McCloud went on, there’s an important announcement y’all ought to take into consideration, if you’ll just bear with me.…
Tycho, held back by Quack, stopped in mid-struggle as they both listened.
This station has just received news … and, make no mistake, this is the real, authentic, no-bullshit deal here …
Cringing within the crowd, head instinctively covered with her arms, Butch Peterson gradually raised her eyes as Monk Walker, who had thrown himself protectively around her, slowly extricated himself.
… that Skycorp, our former employer, has just reached a tentative agreement for the sale of Descartes Station …
Quack Lippin
cott sighed and closed his eyes. All this, and the goddamn Japanese win anyway.
… with the newly established firm of Lunar Associates Ltd.…
Lester blinked. Who? What?
… which is, for your information, completely and wholly owned by the only stockholders who really matter …
“Gotta be the Japanese,” someone murmured.
“Naw,” someone else sighed. “Arabs.”
“Europeans.”
“What do you wanna bet it’s the Aussies?”
… and that is you!
“What the fuck?” Lester heard himself say.
… That is correct! This is the truth! Absolutely no bullshit! You heard it here first! Lunar Associates Ltd. is solely owned and operated by the employees … whoops, I mean former employees … of Descartes Station! We are now its principal shareholders, its management, its work force.…
Lester glanced at Rainman. The Marines Corps colonel had his left hand cupped around the earpiece of his headset. He listened, silently nodded his head, listened some more. Then he looked straight at Lester and made a slow, definite nod.
We are now in control of this mining facility, by the terms of an exclusive agreement reached today between the New York firm of Gamble, Hutton & Schwartzchilde and the majority shareholders of Skycorp and its management.…
The squad leader appeared stunned, but he was already lowering his gun. Through the corridor, moondogs were transfixed upon the ceiling speakers. Quack was relaxing his grip on Tycho; Monk was giving Butch an uncharacteristic hug and kiss.
… Now, once y’all are through changing your underwear, if you know what I mean, the first stockholders meeting of Lunar Associates Ltd. will be held, as customary, in the mess hall at …
From the mess hall behind him, Lester could hear shouting, yelling, whooping. Maybe it was bullshit, and maybe it wasn’t. He grinned, and was startled to see that Rainman was grinning back at him.
… well, when everyone gets there, I guess. At this time we’ll be hearing the details of this deal from our new CEO, Mr. Willard … ’scuse me, Mr. Jeremy Schneider.…
