by Garon Whited
“Which means…?” I trailed off. Genetics isn’t my field.
“Have you ever known a retarded child? Or one with serious birth defects?”
“Yes,” I admitted. I didn’t elaborate.
“I would rather have healthy babies,” she observed. “And, by putting your sperm through analysis, I can pick one that will give a healthy baby in conjunction with one of my own eggs. Or, perhaps more importantly, Kathy’s.”
“What about the old-fashioned method?”
“Max, you can have all the recreational screwing around you want,” she snapped. “You have six women on this base that would climb all over you if you asked—or lie down under you, or any other position you can dream up in this low gravity. I’m not concerned with your physical urges in the slightest. I’m concerned with making sure we don’t wind up with a human race full of epileptic albino microcephalic hemophiliacs! So you can keep it tucked in your pants or spray in every orifice you can reach—but any reproduction will be carefully selected to produce the best possible cross, every time!”
I blinked at her. “Yes, Ma’am,” said I, and saluted. Anne is one pay grade below me and a staff officer, not a line officer. She’s supposed to salute me.
Her expression changed sharply, dropping from passionate intensity to exhaustion with no intermediate stages. It made me realize just how deathly tired she really was.
“I’m sorry, Commander,” she said, softly, rubbing her temples with both hands. “I’ve been up all night with this problem… I’m tired and I’m snappish and I don’t mean to be. Please forgive me.”
“It’s a big responsibility,” I admitted. “I’m not surprised your bedside manner goes to hell. But I’ve got it easy; all I have to do is donate. I wouldn’t exactly call my part of it a chore.”
She nodded. “Thank you for understanding.”
“No problem. Think you can sell that best-genetic-cross line of goods to the others?”
“Max, can you think of any woman willing to bear a child who wouldn’t jump at the idea of an absolutely guaranteed healthy one?”
I thought about it. Nine months of carrying around what was a moderate mystery… Even Christmas presents didn’t sit under the tree for nine months, taunting you. And you sure didn’t carry them around, wondering if it was going to be that new gadget you wanted or another sweater from Aunt Myrtle.
“I guess I see your point. Have you run this by the Captain?”
“Would I be talking to you about this if—” she began, snappishly, and then checked herself and looked guilty. “Yes, Sir. I have. And if you will excuse me, I’m going to get some sleep before I start biting people’s heads off.”
I felt at my throat. “No tooth marks. I’d say you’re still safe to be around, if only barely, you needle-wielding vampire. But sleep’s still a good idea. Sorry to have jumped on your last couple of nerves, Anne. And it’s all right to call me ‘Max’.”
She smiled a little at me. “You’re a very strange man, Maxwell Hardy.”
“It’s genetic. Remind me to tell you about my crazy Uncle Jim. Most brilliant man I ever met, and the wackiest. He was easily the most colorful character in my whole family tree. I’ve got a lot of stories about him. Like the time he took a leak on the windshield of a police cruiser.”
Anne blinked in surprise. “Whatever for?”
“He had a lot of used beer to get rid of.”
“And he just felt like urinating on a police vehicle?”
“Well,” I said, “he had two traffic tickets that day and was feeling a trifle upset about it.”
“Goodness.”
“Of course, the cops weren’t too happy about it.”
“They saw him do it?” she asked. “Didn’t he pay attention to where they were?”
“Sure. They were right there in the car.”
“Oh, my!”
“Yeah. It was terrible. The younger one got out and shouted at Jim. Jim, of course, being a polite fellow, turned to face the young officer.” I made an icky face. “Messy.”
Anne burst out laughing and quickly placed a hand over her own lips. She muffled the laughter and calmed enough to ask, “And then what?”
“Well, the older cop just turned on the wipers and waited for Jim to run out of ammunition. After that, they threw him in the drunk tank for the night. But the younger cop was well and truly…” I trailed off, grinning.
“Soaked?” she supplied. “Stinking?”
“Pissed.”
She laughed again and shook her head. “I must be tired. I didn’t see that coming.”
“Neither did the younger cop. Go on, go to bed. I’ll tell you another Uncle Jim story some other time. Maybe the war of the fire-ants.”
“I look forward to it, Max.” She moved close to me and kissed my forehead before she left.
Once the door closed, Kiska opened her eyes. “She is gone?” she whispered. I nearly jumped out of my chair. At one-sixth gee, it’s not a figure of speech.
“She’s gone, yes,” I agreed. “How long have you been awake?”
“Since she changed the bags,” she admitted. “What is happening?”
“That depends. What’s the last thing you remember?”
She shuddered. “I was… I was on Tchekalinsky Station. The lights had gone out. We were trying to restore the station. Yakov… went mad. He killed…” she choked and started to sob. I held her hand and wiped at her face with a corner of the sheet.
“It’s okay,” I assured her. “You aren’t there anymore. That’s over.”
“I know. What I remember is like a nightmare…” she continued, ignoring me. “I was trapped in it and could not wake. I was a doll, a plaything for Yakov and Karl. And then you came into my dream and stole me from them. I thought… I thought I was never going to wake up, that I was always going to be a toy for someone…” She looked at me and I could see fear looking out of her eyes. “Am I still dreaming?”
“No.”
“But how do I know?” she wailed, clutching at my hand. “How do I know?”
I thought about it. I’m no therapist and not much of a philosopher.
“Well, I guess you don’t. But if this is a dream, at least it isn’t a nightmare anymore. That’s got to be worth something.”
She paused and reflected. “I… I suppose…”
“Besides, it’s your dream, if it is a dream, right?” I looked thoughtful for a second, then corrected myself. “Actually, it’s my dream, not yours; you’re just a figment of my imagination, so don’t get any ideas.”
“I am not!”
“Sure you are.”
“I cannot be! I am real!”
“Well, if you’re real, then this must be reality. What say we assume you’re real and awake and what’s happening is really happening?”
She shut up for so long that I thought she might have lapsed into whatever state she’d been in before. But she frowned and said, “I do not quite follow that thinking, but… but I can try.”
“Good!”
“Did I just dream that you told me that you killed Yakov and Karl?”
So I gave her an outline of where we were and what was happening. She didn’t like it, but it was still a huge improvement over the station. She seemed to think so, anyway.
“That seems to match what I remember of talking with the doctor. May I get up?” she asked.
“I’d rather you didn’t, at least until Anne says you can. She’s the base doctor.”
“Doctor Anne, yes. Very well.” She stayed settled down and shifted to get comfortable.
“Can I get you anything? There’s a screen for reading or watching movies, if you like. I’m pretty sure you can have something light to eat, if you’re hungry.”
“Oh, yes! I’ve never been so hungry!” she declared. “I can’t recall the last time I ate.” She was quiet for several seconds. “I don’t think they ever really fed me.”
“Hold on; I’ll be right back.”
“N
o!” she half-shouted. One hand snatched at my sleeve and held it in a deathgrip. She stopped herself and slowly let go, blushing. “I’m… I’m sorry. I don’t know what… I’m sorry. I just do not want to be alone. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. But I have to go fetch back food. We’re a little shorthanded around here.”
“I suppose you must be.” She looked almost pitiful, and I’ve never been able to stand that. I thumbed the intercom and punched for central control.
“Infirmary to control.”
“Control,” Kathy answered. “What’s on your mind, Max?”
“Kiska’s awake and feeling peckish. Anybody around who can trot in a tray?”
“I’ll check around. Tell her we’re glad she’s feeling better.”
“I’ll do that. Infirmary out.” I released the thumbswitch and sat down by Kiska’s bed again. “There. I’ll stay here until someone brings you breakfast. How’s that?”
She nodded and relaxed into the sheets again. She closed her eyes; I think she fell asleep. I stayed with her anyway until Sara came in with a tray. Sara looked about as exhausted as Anne, but insisted—quietly—on taking over the Kiska-watch. Since they were old friends I let her; I wandered off to check on the robot construction crew’s progress.
* * *
There’s something to be said for the way they built Luna Base. The theory was that by putting construction equipment on the Moon, there would be a net savings in the total amount of mass lifted. If you can send up a ten-ton unit that will take native materials and produce at least eleven objects that weigh one metric ton apiece, you’ve saved yourself the fuel and equipment to ship it. Given that the full crew of the base was supposed to expand the place into—eventually!—Luna City, we have more stuff to dig, melt, bore, refine, process, and shape than a combination of mining camp and shipyard. As a result, Luna Base sometimes makes me think more of a factory floor than a daring new foothold into space. It ain’t all that glamorous.
Outside, watching robots trundle around, I wondered if they could ever just take over. I mean, wouldn’t it be interesting if we managed to kill ourselves off and leave behind self-replicating, self-directing machines? If they were self-aware, they might manage it. We gave them all the goods to do it with. They never sleep, they never slow down, and they never know fear or pain. They can take hard vacuum and fifty times the hard radiation a man can. Most of them are stronger, a lot of them are faster.
Still, I think it’s a pity we never did make a truly intelligent computer. I think we might have benefited from its perspective. Well, I take that back; first, we’d have to listen. As a race, we don’t do that well.
Worklights played over the next in the ring series as a crane hoisted it into position. Laser welding torches don’t glow like an electric torch; they operate outside the visible range, so the only light they give off is from glowing metal. The robots joined another section of rail ahead of the new ring, reminding me of railroad work gangs a few hundred years ago. Other robots assembled, buried, and attached heavy capacitors to either side of the launching track, all in the eerie soundlessness of vacuum. Things were going smoothly and a lot faster than I’d anticipated. Another thousand hours and we’d be ready to start shooting at an attack satellite.
Yeah, it’s a gun. But I always like it when a brainchild comes into being, no matter what it is. I like building things.
I took the opportunity to look at Earth. She was gibbous and bright, although still mostly clouded over. At least there were no reddish places boiling up through the clouds. I turned my back to the bright Earth to let my visor’s polarization cut down and I looked at the stars.
You don’t see stars like that from Earth. The whole Milky Way ran like a river, thick and bright.
Somewhere out there, surely, there must be some other planet with people on it. Maybe not human people, but people. If there isn’t, it seems to be a terrible waste of space. I mean, what’s the point of so much beauty if there’s no one to appreciate it?
Then again, would it be a good thing to have neighbors? I’m not sure we’d be regarded as good ones. We can’t even keep from burning our own house down. What would other life forms think of us? I can just see a starship in orbit, watching us, getting ready to make contact, and then we blow ourselves up. The aliens sigh at each other, draw a line through our name on their clipboard, and drive off to look for intelligent life.
Of course, just as I was waxing philosophical, I got a call.
“Commander Hardy?”
I touched the vox switch on the outside of my helmet to turn on the mike. “This is Max. Who is this?”
“This is Svetlana. Are you busy, commander?”
“Not really. Just stargazing.”
“How nice! I am doing the same, although with some additional equipment. Could you assist me? I am unfamiliar with the computers. I have a thought, and would like to make use of some of the less obviously intuitive functions.”
“Where are you?”
“I am in the observatory control room.”
“Roger that. I’ll be there in a few.”
“Thank you very much, commander.”
I keyed off my mike before sighing. No rest for the wicked.
* * *
I brought Kathy with me to the observatory. Svetlana was frowning prettily at the computer when we came in. She looked up, smiled at me, glanced at Kathy, and seemed less than happy. She beckoned us around the control desk.
“I am pleased you could join me,” she began. She gestured at the display. “I have some difficulties with this equipment; I have not been briefed on its usage. I know what I wish to do, but it is difficult to so instruct the computer.” I noticed her English was very formal. Somehow, it was harder to ignore than Galena’s heavy Russian accent.
Kathy nodded. “It’s not intuitive. Unfortunately, we had a casualty; Gary was our astronomer, insofar as we had one. He was really the electronics man, but radio astronomy was one of the things he did.”
Svetlana sniffed. “Radio astronomy is not all there is. Astronomers make use of the entire electromagnetic spectrum to see the universe, not just radio and light. I see the radio telescope is engaged in some sort of program? Did you not say your astronomer was lost?”
“Yes,” I said. “We’ve been muddling through since then.”
“The program, though, is still running. May I please be informed as to the mission function it performs?” she persisted.
“It’s doing a station-by-station sweep for patterned radio signals,” Kathy explained. “There’s no telling how many people are still alive in orbit. We want to find them before we plan a trip to go get them. We can’t afford to waste rocket fuel—we can’t make more up here.”
Svetlana nodded. “I see. Would it not be faster to search the stations with infrared? Much of the electrical equipment must be destroyed on any station, and all of the radio equipment. Such was the case aboard Tchekalinsky.”
“Infrared?” Kathy asked. “Will that work on a satellite? They’re pretty well insulated.”
“If it is scaled correctly, the equipment can see a living man through the walls of a house, or take the temperature of a dust cloud light-years away. The hull of a satellite is as little more than the insulation in an attic.”
“We can do that?” I added.
“But of course,” she said, smiling at me. “See?” Svetlana touched keys and a new image sprang up—Earth in a false-color thermal view. Some of the planet was still quite hot. Burning cities, possibly. Probably some forest fires. I’d seen that view before, but I hadn’t realized the infrared telescope was as sensitive as she said.
“If your radio telescope program will relinquish control, I can use the optical telescope to sight in on a station and the thermal filter to see if it is warm enough to support life. After the electromagnetic pulse, any station still holding functional life support surely must have been repaired by survivors, not so? Would that not be more reliable than listening for
a radio signal they may not believe to be worthwhile?”
Kathy and I looked at each other.
“I’ll go get the Captain,” I said.
“I’ll kill the skysearch program and turn control over to this console,” she replied.
We both got moving.
* * *
“…so, if they cannot assemble a transmitter—or do not believe there is a point to it—we may not get a signal from anybody. But this,” Svetlana continued, projecting an Earth-orbit picture with several red dots, “is a comprehensive list of places that can, possibly do, support life. You will see that the construction facilities at Heinlein station, orbiting in LaGrange point four, have several separate places where life may still exist.”
A close-up of the station in false color appeared. The facilities were several large spheres for housing, grouped together and connected by a latticework of girders and cables. With lots of solar power, hard vacuum, and zero gravity, the place was ideal for building any number of things. The Luna’s structural members were manufactured almost entirely at ell-four and shipped down to Earth. The skeleton of the Ares, the beginnings of a ship for a manned mission to Mars, was still visible in the spacedock.
Three of the twelve station modules were warm.
“This doesn’t mean anyone is still there,” Anne said. “It only means life support is working. At this range, the EMP might not have caused a complete failure.”
“True enough, doctor,” Svetlana agreed. “But this,” she clicked to another image, “was taken twenty hours after the first.” It was the same station, but four of the spheres were warm.
Svetlana put a dot on one cylinder with a laser pointer. “This module was as cold as space twenty-four hours ago. As of this picture, taken four hours ago, it has warmed to twenty-four Celsius.” Another picture appeared. “This was taken immediately before I came to this meeting. The temperature remains stable at twenty-five degrees, which precludes the possibility of a fire.”
She put down the laser pointer and said, “I submit, sirs and madams, that there are people still alive at LaGrange four—”
