by Garon Whited
“I… I beg your pardon?” President Andrews asked.
Captain Carl appeared to ignore him for the moment. “Citizens of Luna, attention!”
The Luna’s crew leaped to its collective feet. Marginally behind us were Sara, Kiska, and Svetlana. The staffers, most of them, weren’t much further behind.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you have all had the opportunity to review the oath of citizenship for Luna. Those of you standing have submitted applications requesting Lunar citizenship.
“Citizenship is not an easy thing to earn. To be a citizen of Luna requires a certain something, a certain level of intelligence, inner strength, and personal discipline. It requires the ability to be responsible, not just for your own safety, but for the safety of your fellows. It requires the realization that you are part of something greater than just a club, a gang, or a nation. It means you are part of the human race. It means that you cannot think only of your own well-being, but also the well-being of our race as a whole.”
His gaze swept the room. The people standing stood a little straighter; I know I did.
“Your applications have been reviewed and your hard work has won you the right to join us here as permanent residents of Earth’s Moon, citizens of Luna. Those of you now standing who wish to assume the full duties and responsibilities thereof, raise your right hands.”
We did. We all did—Kathy, me, Julie, Anne… everybody Captain Carl had called to their feet. His earlier question about us being with him ran through my head; I’m sure the rest of the crew thought the same thing. Given the choice of going back to Earth in the next couple of months and staying here as a citizen, the choice wasn’t that hard. I like to think that the staffers on probation wouldn’t have needed the unsubtle hint. But it would also serve to help prevent any other nationalist foolishness.
Captain Carl led us through the oath, line by line, without bothering to consult a printout or a display. It didn’t surprise me in the least that he knew it by heart. I followed along, echoing every word, right up to the last part:
“—renounce and abjure all allegiance and fidelity to any foreign prince—”
“—support and defend the race of mankind against all enemies—”
“—obey the orders of the Commanding Officer of the Moon—”
“—bear true faith and allegiance—”
“—bear arms on behalf of Lunar authority when required—”
“—in the Name of Almighty God,” Captain Carl finished, and was echoed by a variety of affirmations in more than one language. I had a minor twinge of conscience; I’m an agnostic. I don’t know that God exists, so I just echoed Captain Carl.
“Thank you all,” Captain Carl added. “Now, Mister President, if you would like to adjourn to your quarters, I’ll discuss with you the matter of returning you to Earth as quickly as we can.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Usually when people are sad, they don't do anything. They just cry over their condition. But when they get angry, they bring about a change.”
—Malcolm X (1925 - 1965)
Captain Carl gathered Kathy and me with a glance and we regrouped at the President’s quarters. The President sat down at his worktable; we remained standing.
President Andrews started talking the moment the door was closed.
“Captain Carl, this nonsense about returning us to Earth is—”
“—more than just nonsense,” Captain Carl interrupted. “I am quite serious. Moreover, you will now shut up, Mister President, and listen. I am damn well tired of having to deal with the stupidity of you and your fellow habitants. This idiocy of attempting to use the office of the President to catapult yourself to power was a blatant and obvious attempt at a coup d’état—and you’re fortunate I don’t treat it as such. One way or another, this is the last time I’m going to talk to you about this issue.
“The Moon doesn’t pity people who don’t know what they are doing, and you have absolutely no skills that we require here. Almost none of you want to learn how to survive on the Moon, and anyone who doesn’t want to learn can’t be kept as a pet. You haven’t yet grasped the fact you’re not retired, you’re not wealthy, and you’re not privileged. You’re human beings that need to learn how to survive—or not.”
The President interrupted with, “I understand your policy regarding the citizenship requirements of the Moon, but the sovereign nation of the Federated States does not recog—”
“You don’t understand a damn thing!” Captain Carl thundered. “You listen while I talk. Say whatever you want out there to save face, but understand this: you’re being deported, Mister President. We’re going to launch every Federation citizen off our real estate. You and your kind are no longer welcome here.
“If at any time I have even the slightest hint of trouble out of you, Mister President, I’ll have you shot. I won’t lock you up. I won’t flog you around a regimental square. I won’t put you over my knee and spank you as a naughty brat ought to be. I will shoot you dead.”
The President looked startled and a trifle frightened. Captain Carl can be direct and believable. He meant exactly what he said, and President Andrews could see it.
“But… but… we’ve… we’re the Federated States…”
“You’re a government in exile. Down there, politically and legally, you may well be the President. Up here, you’re just another thug that wants to live in the past and pretend the good times aren’t over. Flags don’t wave in vacuum, Mister President. Surviving means we have to leave nations and nationalities behind and become a united human race. Anyone who cannot see that also cannot survive out here, and such a person is a danger to us all. I mean to have cooperation—willing, eager cooperation, without grudging, without complaining, without private agendas—and I am willing to do whatever it takes to get it. Think about that.
“This discussion is over. I suggest you think long and hard before you open your mouth, or I’ll stick a gun barrel in it.”
* * *
One of the great things about Kathy is that we have very similar priorities. I understand there’s normally some pomp and ceremony involved when you put an engagement ring on a lady’s finger. For us, it went a little more informally.
Kathy was working with the whole Plumber’s Corps in the Luna. She and I were in the pilot and co-pilot seats, reviewing the damage. The guys were clustered behind us, paying close attention and taking notes. During a break, I recalled that I had a ring in my pocket. I dragged it out.
“Kathy?”
She glanced over at me. Her eyes lit up. “Max! You found time to make a ring?”
“I was on light duty,” I answered. She took it and slipped it on.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I’m glad you like it. Julie and Kiska need to get some credit, though. I really didn’t even think about it until they reminded me. I’m new to this whole long-term romance thing.”
“You do just fine as you are, Max,” she replied. She leaned over and kissed me. The few guys still on the bridge applauded politely and whistled a little. We ignored them.
“Now,” she asked, “what are you going to do about the starboard cargo door?”
See what I mean? Right back to work. We had a ship to fix and a shipmate to rescue.
Whups! I just realized that I haven’t mentioned Kathy’s report on Heinlein Station. Let me back up a bit.
The guy acting as traffic control had indicated the module to use for docking. Kathy had docked the Luna to a habitat module at Heinlein, as per his request. Galena had gone in to meet and greet everyone while Kathy stayed with her ship. They obviously managed to silence Galena before she could radio a warning, but they still wanted the Luna.
The bad guys’ timing was a little off. Apparently, they’d tried to board the Luna while their OTV’s were still trying to tie her down. Maybe they thought the cables were already tight, or maybe they thought they’d hold her anyway. Maybe they were just eager. Whatever the reason, they tr
ied to open the outer door and discovered that it was locked from inside.
I’m glad I put that window in. Kathy heard a horrendous pounding and went to look; they’d brought up an electric chisel and were carving their way in. Without the window, Kathy wouldn’t have known what was going on and might not have been willing to pull away. As it was, she dove for her controls, slapped the disengage on the docking coupler—they’d disabled their own side of the disconnect—and twisted the throttle.
The breakaway probably sucked the chiselers into death pressure, but I doubt that concerned her a bit. In retrospect, it didn’t bother me too much, either.
The Luna had bucked as the loose cables went tight and snapped. The OTV’s, still attached to the cables, were dragged along for a bit until the cables finally finished running through the grooves made by the sudden jerk. After that, it was just a matter of blasting for home. Kathy already had a couple of return flight plans in the computers and did a bit of seat-of-the-pants flying to correct for the unorthodox launch. It wasn’t perfect, but it only needed to be close enough to get into communication range.
I was just glad she made it back at all. I didn’t even complain about the damage caused by women drivers—but that might have just been my survival instincts kicking in.
* * *
While we were putting the Luna back together—and working on her engines—Captain Carl was negotiating for the release of Galena. The jamming stopped when they were sure the Luna had either landed or crashed. Either way, they had no need to waste any more power. This also let us talk to them. Captain Carl called me into the control center, so I left Kathy in charge of the repairs.
The conversation with the station wasn’t pleasant. I could tell that the Captain was becoming less patient than his usual self. Well, the residents were a trifle trying on his nerves. I wondered if Anne had anything for ulcers, or if she was helping to relieve the stress in other ways.
“To whom am I speaking?” Captain Carl asked.
The static was pretty bad, but the voice came out loud and brash. “I’m George Thompson, the new station crew boss. And you are?”
“I am Captain Carl Hughes, commanding officer of Luna Base. What have you done with my crewman?”
“I don’t have a crewman,” George replied, with a guffaw. “I’ve got a crewwoman.”
“What is her condition?” Captain Carl continued, trying to sound patient.
“Her condition is that she’s aboard an all-male station. She’s not hurt, not to speak of, but she’s gonna get awful hungry if she doesn’t learn to be nicer. Fact is, we don’t have the food to spare for her. You might want to send a pizza over before she wastes away.”
“We will consider it. Let me speak to her.”
“Well, I can’t do that just now. She’s with a friend, and I hate to disturb them.”
“Then we have nothing further to say.” Captain Carl shut off the mike, turned down the speaker, and ignored further commentary and demands.
“Is it a good idea to provoke the man?” I asked.
“I’m building an association, commander. The only way he can negotiate with me is if I speak to ensign Mishenkova. If I don’t speak to ensign Mishenkova first, he doesn’t get to speak to me. He needs us to feed him, and he needs her to get us to feed him. I’m making sure he knows that without rubbing his nose in it. Let a man save face and you can get him to do anything. In the meantime, how are you doing with the space cannon and the Luna?”
I gave him a report. The cannon was ready to fire a few ranging shots for calibration. The Luna was under repair. I went on about the new runway, the fuel processing, the new engine pumps…
About an hour later, Captain Carl switched on the microphone again.
“George? Is Galena there?” He paused, listening, then repeated it.
“Hey!” the speaker crackled. “Carl! Good to hear from you! Thought we’d lost you there for a while.”
“You did. Put Galena on, please.”
“Just a minute. I want to talk to you about sending your ship over.”
“Put Galena on first.”
“I can’t do that right now. She’s with a friend.”
“All right. I’ll hold the line and wait.”
“While we’re waiting—”
“No. No discussion. I’ll talk to Galena, not you. Tell her what you want and put her on. I don’t care to talk to a man who tries to steal a ship and kidnaps women.”
There was a pause.
“That’s kinda unfriendly there, fellah. You might want to think about that before something happens to your girlfriend.”
“The only reason I haven’t shot you out of the sky is that she’s aboard and unharmed. If that changes, I’ll have to reconsider.”
There was a longer pause than the speed-of-light lag.
“You know, we can shoot back. You might want to think about an OTV loaded with liquid oxygen landing on your base.”
“I doubt your aim is that good. But we might be able to avoid this whole shooting war. I’ll talk to Galena, now.”
“I think we’ve got a lot to talk about, buddy.”
“I think we’re not talking at all. Have Galena call me when she’s available. Out.” He clicked off the microphone again and turned to me. “Commander Hardy, start your calibration. Let me know when we can put a bullet through a fly’s eye at a million kilometers. We may need that cannon for more than just a killer satellite; we may have a satellite full of killers. And while you’re at it, see if you can’t whip up something that can shoot down an OTV.”
“I’m on it, boss.”
* * *
The coilgun’s whole loading and firing system was computer controlled and automated. I called out to the Luna to summon Li, since he was the programmer for the coilgun control system, and we moved to the control station.
Since the thing was built to shoot down things in Earth orbit, I’d built it facing west—Earth’s west, or back along the Moon’s orbital path. The idea there was to maximize the closing speed with anything coming around the horizon of Earth, like, say, a geosynchronous satellite. If the satellite was headed toward us—and it would be at that point in its orbit—it would be traveling at a trifle over eleven thousand kilometers per hour, or roughly three thousand meters per second.
If I put an eight hundred kilogram block of iron—or iron-cased payload—in front of such a satellite, the collision would be spectacular. I figured to have that block of iron traveling at a minimum of twelve kilometers per second, and at a tangent to the circular orbit. Call it a total closing speed between projectile and satellite of approximately fifteen thousand meters per second. For comparison, a good rifle has a muzzle velocity of around one thousand meters per second. And mine fired a bullet that weighed as much as a full-sized car.
That’s a heck of a nudge. That’s not counting what’s likely to happen when I fill said block of iron with liquid oxygen. Oxygen makes things burn; concentrated, pure oxygen makes things burn very fast. Atmospheric reentry afterward is probably just overkill.
We had several dozen shells already constructed and sitting in the underground magazine. They were in six groups, each group carefully constructed to weigh exactly the same. We had the theoretical equations already programmed into the computer, but experimental evidence never hurts. I had a heavy-lifter robot start loading the lightest shells—about two hundred kilos—and a piston pushed the thing along the track to a point at a precise distance from the first ring. I couldn’t have the robot loader too close to the rings or we’d be launching pieces of it as it got sucked through the loading bore.
The coilgun worked beautifully. The first shell zipped down the rail like a rabbit at a greyhound track and zinged off into the sky. We got a ballistic track from the radar and started figuring. We worked backward to see how close theory and practice came. It wasn’t too far off, from an efficiency standpoint, but at astronomical distances even a tiny error at launch is a clean miss downrange. Li started tweaki
ng the ring power and timing while I started thinking about course correction and terminal guidance.
We fired it again, adjusted again, and repeated the process. It took us about half an hour. All that time to build it, half an hour to sight it in. Li didn’t seem to appreciate the irony.
I thumbed the talk switch and called for the boss. “Captain?”
“Go ahead, commander.”
“We have a working coilgun, but shooting down the Heinlein station is going to be tricky. This is a fixed-mount weapon, sir, and it’s a heck of a bank shot around Earth.”
“Start work on something for direct fire on the station, and figure out a way to arm the Luna.”
“Way ahead of you, sir. Just telling you what we’ve got on hand.”
“Good. Can you nail the orbital weapons platform?”
“Yes, Sir.”
There was a pause of two seconds.
“Commander Hardy,” he said, “kill that son of a bitch.”
Whoa, thought I. Right now? Yes, right now.
“Li, get a position track from Svetlana. I’m loading a three-aitch slug,” our shorthand for “Three Hundred kilogram, Solid shell.”
“Fire to miss our target,” I instructed. “Put it a hundred meters inside the orbital track and we’ll see how we’re doing on a live-fire exercise.”
“Aye, Sir,” he responded. He contacted Svetlana in the observatory and double-checked our earlier orbit element computations. Li set up the firing solution and sat back. The Captain came into central control while we were working.
“Coilgun ready, sir,” Li reported. “Firing solution entered, timer set.”
I clapped Li on the shoulder. “Thanks.” I turned to the Captain. “There will be a firing delay until our position and the satellite’s projected path give us a shot. It’ll be a while for the slug to get downrange. If it goes where we think it will, we’ll fire for effect with a liquid oxygen warhead.”
“Very well. How long until launch?”
“Eleven hours, sir.”
