by Garon Whited
“The entertainment facilities are entirely inadequate,” he went on, “the space available to ‘unauthorized’ personnel is shockingly limited, and the criteria for slavery—excuse me, your so-called lunar ‘citizenship’—entirely weighted toward persons of purely technical background. I demand that the Captain open the rest of the facility. This close confinement is intolerable.”
I blinked at him. “Well, let me try to answer those. The entertainment facilities have a lot of movies and more than a few games—including one pool table and some other equipment we could build here—and you have full access to that.
“The criteria for citizenship are weighted mainly because we don’t have much use for accountants, economists, movie producers, actors, or retired rock stars. We need people who know their way around vacuum, hard radiation, and closed-ecology systems.
“And, finally, your demand to have the entire facility opened to your idle wandering and nose-poking is rejected out of hand for the same reasons—someone without the technical background you so scorn would touch, turn, or open something better left alone.”
He turned slowly reddish as I spoke and was shading over to purplish by the time I finished. I wondered if his temper was likely to cause him heart problems or high blood pressure.
“I should have known,” he began, then choked off. “I should have known,” he repeated, more levelly, “that speaking to you would be a waste of time. A cretin such as yourself simply cannot understand the need for the most basic of amenities. When this crisis is over, you, sir, shall regret your insolent tone.”
“Heck, I thought I was being reasonable,” I replied. “But since you don’t understand the concept, go away.”
“What! Why, I shall most certainly not—”
“Yes,” I interrupted, “you will. If you don’t go away right this moment, I’ll lock you in your bathroom.”
He sniffed. “Your threat leaves me completely unmoved, sir! I am not afraid of you.”
“Oh, goodie. Now go ask around and find out what happened to the last two guys I locked in a bathroom.” I stood up, deliberately, and did my best to loom menacingly. I’m a big guy; at an even two meters, I towered over Andrews by a good thirty centimeters. I succeeded in looming. “Right now.”
He glared up at me, but did his best to haughtily turn on one heel and stalk off. It’s not an easy trick in low gravity.
I confess that my opinion of him was not very high. In fact a snake’s belly would have been seven steps up from his standing. But what was I supposed to say? Heck, I didn’t even know the official policy for non-citizens.
Well, there was one sure way to sort it out. I went to see the Captain. He was in his office, just off the control center. I knocked and he told me to come in. I saluted and he returned it.
“What’s on your mind, Max?”
“Policy, boss. I’m the XO while Kathy’s off-planet and I don’t know how to deal with the dinosaurs. What’s our position on these jokers, anyway? We got a plan for ’em?”
“Absolutely. Shut the door, please, and sit down.”
I shut the door and parked myself in a chair. “Does it involve solyent green?”
“Not directly, no.”
“Directly?” I echoed. I’ve known Captain Carl to joke, but it’s such a dry sense of humor that it’s sometimes hard to tell.
“Maxwell, has it occurred to you that we can’t bury people who die? We can’t afford to waste the material—the nitrogen, the water, the carbon… everything. We can make a memorial if it will make the bereaved feel better, but the bodies go into the recycler. You, me, or great-aunt-Martha—we simply can’t adhere to Earthling customs on the matter.”
I felt a little queasy. “That’s not going to go over very well,” I noted.
“Quite right,” he agreed, nodding sagely. “I don’t like it either. But it’s an ugly reality, and we have to face it. There are a lot of ugly realities that I have to find ways to face.”
I swallowed heavily. “Yes, Sir. So, does this have any bearing on the policy on boneheads?”
“Indirectly, yes. The policy is to bother them.”
“Ah, good. I can—” I broke off. “Wait, what?”
“Irritate them,” he elaborated. “Make them miserable and unhappy. I want them so fed up with life here on the Moon that the idea of going back to their happy, safe little habitat looks sweeter than staying.”
“Aha! The plan is to get rid of them!”
He nodded. “Indeed.”
“But won’t we have to put their habitat back in shape for them?”
Captain Carl grinned like a wolf. “Yes. We’ll have to get their life support working again.”
I nodded to myself, thoughtfully. Life support, yes. But… “Uh, Captain? There’s a lot more to a habitat than life support.”
“I know. But it’s the most basic of necessities. We’ll give them that. Then they can run their own affairs. They seem to think that living under military authority is not acceptable; if they want a democracy, they can have it. I don’t doubt that we can put the station to rights and use it ourselves once they manage to kill themselves off.”
I bit my lip. I’ve already killed two men by leaving them on a dead space station. I didn’t relish the idea of sixty or so, boneheads and goobers notwithstanding.
“Isn’t that a little, ah…”
“Drastic?”
“I was thinking ‘draconian,’ ‘heartless,’ maybe even ‘cruel,’ but yeah, that’ll do.” I grinned at him to let him know that I wasn’t accusing him of anything.
“Yes.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples. “Maxwell, for the first time in recorded human history—if you don’t count Noah and his ark—we have a chance to weed the gene pool of people who cannot or will not learn. It’s not a question of ‘genetic purity’ or some silly political pogrom. I speak only of the conditions under which we are living. We can support persons who cannot support themselves in our new environment, but only at a serious cost in basic resources and a serious risk to those who devote themselves to the task.
“Emotionally, I’m inclined to help them; as human beings, they deserve their lives and their dignity. We could return them to their habitat and devote personnel to run it. Attrition from old age will eventually do them in—as it will for all of us; we are all alike in that we are all dying. We could support them in their old age.
“There are a number of reasons why that’s unacceptable,” he continued. “They’re dangerous, Maxwell. We have unskilled, undisciplined gremlins just waiting to destroy something. We have a lot of mouths demanding food, demanding entertainment, and demanding their constitutional rights. We have a lot of people who cannot or will not understand the situation of the human race. And, last but not least, we have a lot of people who want to tell me how to run the world—but can’t organize a birthday party without calling a caterer.”
He sighed and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I used to like being in command, Max. I used to thrive on the responsibility and pressure.” He lowered his hands and looked, for a moment, older than I thought. “Pressure for breakfast, danger for lunch, aggravation for dinner… but this is damn near too much. I’ve got the whole human race to watch out for—and its future to think about. Which means I have to do things I find ethically, emotionally, and morally objectionable, in greater degree than ever before. I hate this damned job!”
“I’m glad to hear that, sir.”
His eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?” he asked.
“Nobody who wants absolute power can be trusted with it, sir. It means they don’t understand the concepts of authority and responsibility. You don’t want this job, but you’re willing to do it. There’s a big difference between ‘wanting’ and ‘willing’.” I grinned at him. “A lot of those jokers in the rec room want the job. That’s a sure-fire way to tell that they must not get it. Others don’t want the job—but I still wouldn’t trust them with anything more complicated t
han a toothbrush. Not wanting the job isn’t the only qualification, sir—but it is a necessary one.”
Captain Carl looked thoughtful for a long time before he spoke.
“Thank you, Maxwell.”
“No problem, boss. I think you’re just the guy for the job. Remember the New Year’s party?”
“Why… yes. Of course. The one where Commander Edwards became a trifle… um…”
“Wasted. Yeah, that one. Do you recall what I told you?”
“That you’d follow me to the Moon and back,” he replied. He smiled slightly at the memory.
“Yep. And we’re not back yet.”
He sighed. “We may not manage it at all, Max.”
“Maybe so. But as far as following your lead is concerned, you know what’s changed?”
“What?”
“Not a thing. You’re stuck with me, sir. Deal with it.”
He smiled. “If I had a dozen more people like you, I wouldn’t worry nearly so much about our race.”
“Well, that brings up another point… I may be about to contribute to the gene pool, and I’d like your help.”
He chuckled. “You have the wrong gender.”
“Huh? Oh! Darn it, sir, that’s not what I meant!”
“I know, but how often do I get to use you as a straight man?”
I grinned. “Touché. It think this makes twice. But seriously, Kathy wants you to perform the wedding.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Getting married, are you?”
“It’s either that or she’ll promote me to ‘Dad’ without it. I tried to tell her I’ve got too much to do, but she’s a determined little cuss.”
“It’s genetic,” he replied, smiling. “I’ll see what I can arrange for your wedding. But, on the subject of too much to do, Anne has a list of potential suspects for us.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Talk to her and see about getting them all lined up for examination. Fake up some other reason—‘citizenship interviews,’ perhaps—and have Anne look them over for scratches. And I want you there for it; I’ll issue you a sidearm.”
“A sidearm, sir?”
“Yes. I want you armed. You haven’t been feeling well, and someone on this base is a murderer.”
“Roger that, sir. I’m on it.”
“Very good. Anything else?”
“Well, if you have an hour or two, I’d like to go over some construction I think we’ll be needing soon…”
Chapter Thirteen
“Murder is unique in that it abolishes the party it injures, so that society has to take the place of the victim and on his behalf demand atonement or grant forgiveness; it is the one crime in which society has a direct interest.”
—W. H. Auden (1907 - 1973)
Anne loaded a list of suspects into my hand computer. It had four names.
“That’s it?” I asked. “Four people? That’s some picky genetic work on your part! Good job.”
She smiled at me. “No, actually, it was a little simpler than that. Sara typed the blood as bee-positive. That narrowed the list a lot. The gene tests on blood aren’t as complete as I’d like, but there were some skin cells left. Those told us more about our evildoer. It’s definitely a ‘he’.”
“So I see. All right. I’ll check their applications, if they have any, and we’ll work out a reason for a medical exam.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Three of them had applications in; they were former staff. The fourth was a habitat resident.
It bothered me that my computer genius was on the list. I called Li in first because I could just order him to get a physical and not explain a thing—handy thing, this chain of command. He came in and Anne looked him over while I stood behind the exam table. She gave him a full diagnostic workup, everything. We got records on him as detailed as anything on the Luna’s crew.
Not a mark on him. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Next on the list, I had a one-in-three chance of picking a murderer. I picked a staffer, Alvin Tinston, an Asian-American agronomist with a specialty in low-gravity farming. He cleared the physical.
Fifty-fifty odds on the next one. Tang Wu was a personal service staffer—a glorified gopher. The job isn’t pleasant, unless you like taking the blame for any little quibble that a collection of irritable old people can find or invent.
Anne looked him over and asked if those scratches on his arms were bothering him. Tang stammered something about how they itched. There was no sense in beating around the bush; I stepped up behind him and pressed the muzzle of a needle gun to the back of his neck.
“Tang Wu, you are under arrest. Don’t move.”
He held very still. Anne got out a plastic zip-tie and tied his wrists together; we didn’t have any handcuffs. We marched him straight down to the Captain’s office. Unfortunately, this attracted attention; I ignored all questions and kept moving with the prisoner. We managed to get into the Captain’s office before a crowd could form. Everybody loves a spectacle—bored people more than most.
“Sir,” I reported, still holding the gun against Tang’s neck, “this gentleman is named Tang Wu, of the Liwei habitat. I have arrested Tang Wu for the murder of Ms. Emily Jane Jefferson.”
The Captain nodded. “Very well. Tang Wu, do you have anything to say?”
“Can…” he began, in a whisper, then swallowed. “Can I talk without getting shot?”
“Yes.” The Captain nodded at me and I stepped back. I kept Tang covered, though.
“I didn’t do it,” Tang said. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
Captain Carl waited for a minute. “Is that all you have to say?”
“…yes,” Tang whispered. He looked scared. I suppose anyone would be.
“I hope you are correct,” Captain Carl said. “A general court-martial will be convened tomorrow morning at oh-eight-thirty. There the evidence will be presented. Are you familiar with the process of a general court-martial?”
“…no.”
“Then I will assign Lieutenant Lewis to advise you. She will meet with you this evening when her duties are completed. Commander Hardy will join you as a witness and security detail.” I nodded as the Captain spoke. I’d be Julie’s escort, just in case Tang got panicky or stupid. More stupid.
“Remove and confine him, Commander Hardy.”
* * *
Now that I was no longer confined to the infirmary, I ate in the messhall like everybody else. My boys sat down at the table with me and we discussed how things were going—sort of an informal staff meeting. Then we moved on to new business, such as the fuel production facilities I wanted and the landing pad.
“Did you live in Egypt in a past life?” Chuck asked, regarding my sketch of the ramp.
“Why do you ask?”
“This whole tilting-block-and-counterweight thing.”
I shrugged. “If you have a better idea, I’ll listen to it. This is the best landing facility I could think up while mobbed by constant interruptions.”
They regarded my sketch for several seconds in silence. It wasn’t elegant, but it was effective, efficient, fast-acting, and required almost no power. I didn’t see how to beat that. After some serious pondering on their parts, they reluctantly decided I had a point.
“Guys, real quick here… if you have a better idea, I want to hear it. I mean it. Don’t just agree with me because I’m the boss.” I glared at Peng. “Okay?”
“Okay, boss. But it looks like it’ll work,” he added. “Magnetic clamps in the pad to hold the forward skid?”
“That’s my thought, yeah. Anybody got a better idea?”
“Can the Luna stand on her main jets like that?” Chuck asked. “With the new fuel, that is.”
“In lunar gravity, yes. She’s not going to do a tail landing on Earth, obviously.”
Li was looking at my sketch and frowning thoughtfully. We all got quiet and waited for him to say something.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Li?”
<
br /> “I’m not an expert on ballistics; I pushed electrons for a living. But does the Luna have to come straight down for a jet landing? Can’t it come down belly-first?”
“Well, yes, she can. But there’s no air, Li. She can’t glide down, and her belly jets won’t be enough to keep her from crashing if we use the new fuel.”
“Umm. Yeah, sure; I got that. But look here,” he took my pen and flipped my sketch over. “If she”—I noticed that he used the correct pronoun—“comes in like a plane… wait. Let me start over. She comes down like a rocket, tail-first, like she should. She gets close to the ground and starts a bellyflop. Her main jets keep firing so she winds up with no downward vector and a mild forward vector—a few meters per second. The belly jets keep her from slamming into the ground too hard, and she takes the impact on all three points, not just her forward gear. She can have an arrestor hook like a fighter on an aircraft carrier, and we can make a cable to stop her.”
He turned the sketch around for me and gestured at it. “What do you think?”
“How does she lift again?” Peng asked. “The belly jets won’t tilt her nose up.”
“A fixed ramp instead of a tilting one,” Li answered. “She just drives right up it and into space. Once she’s airborne—spaceborne?—the attitude controls can aim for anywhere.”
“That’s true,” I said. “We can build a runway to the wall of Copernicus and use some of the ringwall as part of the ramp. Maybe even with a catapult built into it, a magnetic one instead of steam-powered. Heck, the ’bots already did something like that with the coilgun cannon, but on an immensely smaller scale. For a runway, we’ll have to take a sizable notch out of the ringwall, though, instead of just carving out a hole.
“We’ll use the ramp for landings, too,” I continued. “She can come in almost straight along the ramp, like a skier landing on a slope and just stay centered on the runway until she’s ready to park here at base. That’s a long runway and should give her plenty of time to brake, even if she doesn’t have enough fuel to burn to a halt. Remember, she doesn’t have to come in front way forward; she can come in backward just as easily—and the main jets will slow her down faster than the nose thrusters.”
