by Garon Whited
“I did,” I admitted. “I was judging by appearance, not by experience, and I apologize. Please excuse me; I haven’t had time to read your dossier. We’re a bit swamped.”
“Apology accepted. You’re quick.”
“I know when I’m wrong. So what do you want to start on?”
“Just point me at a project.”
I grinned. “You’re about to get a nickname if you keep that up,” I told her.
“Bitch?” she guessed.
“I was thinking ‘Sparky,’ actually. I hate it when subordinates are yes-men—or yes-women. I’ll tell you what to get done, but rarely will I tell you how. Can you live with that?”
She looked me over. “Do you really work that way?” she asked, curious and interested.
“Peng?” I asked. “Do I work that way?”
Peng looked sour. “Yes.”
“Why the look?”
“It’d be easier if you told us how you want it done!”
I turned back to Hashiko. “Will that be a problem?”
She chuckled. “They want to know how to get the job done, do they? Give me two weeks and I’ll be your right hand,” she promised, with a grin. I liked her.
Her shop name was instantly “Sparky.” I assigned her to Chang; maybe she’d get him to loosen up a little. It ought to be interesting, regardless.
On another note, Peng took the idea for a hydrogen collector and ran with it. Julie was absolutely ecstatic; we had hydrogen production measurable in grams per day! While that may seem miniscule to anyone who lives on Earth, it means that every day we collect hydrogen, we have about three grams of hydrogen for water added to our supply. In a year, that’s about over a kilogram of water—we can only collect solar hydrogen when the Sun is in the sky, of course. But we can build another collector, or two, or more if we need to.
I have hopes that we can increase our collector power—or build enough of them—to eventually build up a hydrogen-based fuel stockpile for the Luna. That would be very nice. Very nice indeed.
Things were going fairly well. That always makes me nervous.
* * *
The night before our wedding, Kathy had trouble sleeping. She’d already had a few bouts of morning sickness, but other than that, it was hard to tell she was pregnant. I was cuddled with her in the dimness and found I couldn’t sleep, either. She was tense. So I kept my arms around her and rubbed her back in an attempt to soothe her.
“Max?” she whispered.
“Right here.”
“What… what do you think about this baby?”
“I think we’d better crack down on the little hellion. We can’t have him or her growing up like me.”
She laughed a little, but her heart wasn’t in it.
“What’s on your mind, sweetie?” I asked.
“I—I just wonder how human it will be.”
“Completely,” I replied. “You take human bits and stick them together, the result is human.”
“Like Frankenstein’s monster?” she asked.
I looked down at the top of her head. She kept her face pressed to my chest.
“Sweetie, did you read the book?”
“Well… no. I saw a couple of the movies.”
I sighed. Nobody reads anything anymore.
“You should read it. The creature was human—designed with all the advantages of humanity without any of the flaws. It was the rest of humanity, the normal, lesser beings, who gave him so much trouble. They didn’t accept him as one of their own, so he reacted the way anybody would. He was human. He lived, he loved, he felt. What more do you want?”
“Is that all there is to being human?” she asked, very softly.
“I’m sure Anne can give you more technical requirements,” I hedged. “But to me, yes. Heck, I thought of Ford as being nearly human. If he’d been smart enough to use the toilet and open his own cans of food, he’d have been human in my book, fur or no.”
“You’re not a biologist, Max.”
“Nope. I’m a human being, and that’s how I feel about it.”
She squeezed me fiercely, her head pressing hard against my chest.
“Max… I have to tell you something.”
“Hold it. Is this a confession?”
“Uh? Yes.”
“Then keep it. I don’t need to know.”
“Yes, you do! You do!”
I had trouble breathing in her grip.
“Okay, tell me what sort of confession it is. Most of them are dark secrets, right?”
“Yes. I—”
“Hold it. This is my inquisition. What sort of dark secret? Sexy fantasies? Weird fetishes? Horrible things you’ve done?”
“No…”
“Okay, just give me a category.”
She thought for a second. “Genetic.”
“All right. Anne and Sara gave you a clean bill of genetic health, right? You don’t have any bad recessives in your gene scheme, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you fool them?”
“No. They’re right. See, I have—”
“Hold it. Against all odds, you’ve got a completely clean gene chart. That’s fine. Now, you’ve still got a deep, dark, nasty genetic secret?”
“Well, not exactly. But no normal person has a clean gene chart.”
“Huh.” I thought about that one for a second. “Did you have anything to do with it?”
“No. My parents were part of Project—”
“Stop. Your parents did something to chlorinate your personal gene pool, right?”
“Well… yes.”
“Great. You had nothing to do with it, right?”
“Well… that’s right.”
I shrugged. “Then so what? I don’t care if you come from a test tube or Arcturus. You’re Kathy. A little sadistic, a little violent, sometimes bloodthirsty, very dangerous, and more beautiful than the flare of a rocket at liftoff. My future wife and mother of my children. Are you absolutely sure that I need to know anything else? Or do you just need to tell me?”
She was silent for so long that I wondered if she’d fallen asleep. But no, she was still tense.
“I… I need to tell you, Max. Maybe you don’t need to know… but I have to say it. Just so I know you know, just so I told you. I… I was afraid to tell you before, and I’d already told you so much that it didn’t seem as important. Now… now I’m going to have to try and be a mother, and… and… I just need to know that you know. Okay?”
“Well, that’s different.” I settled down a little more and squeezed her. “Go ahead. I’ll listen.”
Forty years ago, the Department of Defense started Project Superman. Military personnel who intended to have children could opt to have those children automatically enrolled in the military academy of their choice—Annapolis, West Point, whatever—provided they accepted a new and still slightly-experimental procedure for genetic enhancement of their offspring.
The process was almost identical to the one Anne had proposed, less forty years of refinement.
Kathy was one of those children. Her mother and father both donated genetic material—in her mother’s case, the technique of the time required the removal of an ovary. The scientists in charge mixed and matched until they came up with a combination with absolutely none of the negative traits, either dominant or recessive, of either parent, while including all the positive traits. Both parents had excellent eyes, sharp reflexes, high intelligence, and good health. Her father also had a peculiar ability to maintain his orientation—he never got dizzy, he never lost track of which way was up, that sort of thing. Handy for a pilot. Naturally, Kathy inherited this trait.
At the time, the mix-and-match took the ovary apart and subjected every egg to analysis. One ovary, one child. But the result was as nearly perfect as possible for any offspring of those parents.
“I wasn’t supposed to know,” she whispered. “I wasn’t supposed to ever know. But my father was so proud… I’ve never
been a human being, Max. I’ve been a construct, a biological thing, designed from human parts. I’ve known it since I was five, and I’ve been trying to learn to be a human being ever since. And now… now I’m going to be a mother, have human babies, and I’m so afraid… I’ve never been so afraid, Max.”
My chest was wet. She was crying on me. I stroked her hair.
“Well, let me think a moment. You know how to be afraid. You feel responsible for your offspring. You can feel alienated and alone, and you need people just as much as anyone else. I know you can feel loyalty and devotion. You can even love, unless I’m really off the mark. Am I?”
“No!”
“So, you can love a human man, you can take comfort in human arms, you look exactly like a human being, and you can bear human children. You were designed and planned rather than just born, but you could have come out exactly this way anyway, if I understand the theory. The odds were just longer. You’re human.”
“You… you’re okay with me being… being…?”
“Better than me? A superior human design? An improvement over the base model?” I asked. “Mostly. I have some inadequacy issues now, but I’ll do my best to live up to your high standards… What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Maxwell Hardy, you have the oddest, most skewed, most infuriatingly different way of looking at things I have ever encountered.”
“But you love me anyway, right? Right?”
She squeezed me. “No. ‘Because,’ not ‘anyway.’ I love you, Max.”
“Good. Now I won’t have to wonder about it. It’s been on my mind for a while.”
She nailed me with a pillow and we ended up sweaty and exhausted. I didn’t mind.
Chapter Sixteen
“If you would marry suitably, marry your equal.”
—Ovid (43 BC - 17 AD)
There were a lot of things that needed to be done.
I had railguns to build, but I delegated that. I had a runway to build, but the robots wouldn’t need more instructions until they actually reached the ringwall. After that, I would need to drive out and supervise for quick results—remote control is always more awkward. There were a number of maintenance projects—little things, but the Plumbers’ Corps was on top of minor maintenance. I really wanted to figure out a way to build terminal guidance for the coilgun shells. And the fabrication unit was working on meter-square, adaptive optics—my aluminum mirrors. The list went on and on.
All that took a back seat for the day. I was getting married.
I felt a little weird about that, and feeling weird about it felt weird, if you get my drift. I mean, I was supposed to be a little nervous, sure; every groom has a moment where he wonders if he hasn’t made a catastrophic blunder in agreeing (or asking) to take a short walk that lasts the rest of his life. I guess it goes away for most of us. Me, I’ve been tempted to this extreme three times, and the third time nailed me.
Back to my feeling weird. Part of it was because of Svetlana. She kept giving me that slightly-predatory look, as though she’d like to take me back to her quarters and either rip my clothes off or rip my head off. I don’t think she was entirely certain, herself. Even a year earlier, I wouldn’t object to the first one. As it was, I couldn’t help but object as both an expectant father and a groom. She was just going to have to get over it. Either that, or Kathy would kill her.
Another part of it was because of Galena. It’s not because I wondered about having a relationship with her—far from it! She was on a hostile space station and apparently a hostage while Kathy and I polished up dress shoes for our little promenade. That made me feel a bit weird right there. We were planning this wedding—rather, people were planning this wedding while I built things—for quite a while. I wished Galena could be there, but that couldn’t be helped. Kathy insisted on going ahead with it before starting a space war with Heinlein Station; I think she worried about not marrying me before going into combat. I can’t say I blame her. So I felt a little weird about feeling weird about feeling weird about my wedding day.
What can I say? I was a groom. I’m told we get a little wacky while waiting.
Then I wondered how I’d be when Kathy went into the infirmary to sign for a stork delivery. Like I needed to borrow future worries.
The door opened and Peng stuck his head in. I stood up and glanced at my reflection one last time. I was dressed in my best Navy whites, complete with sidearm and saber. I looked about as sharp as a monofilament edge.
“So you’re pretty already, or as pretty as you’ll ever get,” Peng said. “The Reverend just called for places. How do you feel?”
“Like I’m about to alter the course of human history,” I replied. “How do you think I feel?”
“Pale, sweaty, shaky, and nervous,” he promptly answered. “A lot like when I shot you, but worse.”
“Remind me to demote you,” I growled.
“Sure.” His eyebrows drew together. “What’s lower than ‘henchman’?”
“‘Hireling,’ ‘grunt,’ and ‘lackey’,” I answered. “Prop me up if I faint, Igor.”
“Yessss, Mathter. Good thing this is the Moon,” he muttered. We went into the messhall and took our places. I was very, very glad we marked the deck for the Reverend—and even more glad I humored him. I was in no shape to find my place without those hints. Worse, everyone was there to watch; the first lunar wedding is an historical event if nothing else. Looking like a buffoon at one’s own wedding is bad enough, but historical occasions are worse. I think I managed to look more confident than I felt. The padre smiled at me and nodded; his expression was sympathetic and I felt better.
“Don’t fret, son,” he sotto voced. “I’ve done this thousands of times and haven’t lost a groom yet.”
I smiled. I may not be much on religion, but I like him. I calmed down. Some, anyway.
Without warning, the one-em-cee came to life with a full-throated blast of wedding march. I jerked even more to attention. Someone had the volume up about three times too loud and I could feel the vibration in my head. Whoever was on the sound controls damped it back in a second or two to something more like a march and less like a musical jet engine.
The doors at the far side of the messhall opened and people started marching in. Two rows of citizen-soldiers came in a slow march, wearing freshly-pressed jumpsuit uniforms and those swords Captain Carl asked for. At intervals, the lead soldiers turned smartly outward, did an about face, and stood to attention. In a minute, there was a double row forming an honor guard down the aisle.
Kathy came in. She was on the arm of Captain Carl, but I barely saw him. Kathy seemed to glow, dimming the rest of the room. She had a bouquet of flowers—flowers! Where did they get flowers? Anne, down in the hydroponics section? I didn’t know we had seeds for flowers—and was smiling behind the thin gauze of her veil.
I’m not sure who talked her into a dress; they just aren’t practical in space. But someone went to a lot of trouble to turn a white jumpsuit—originally intended for civilian science staff—into a white dress. I never did find out who insisted on a white dress for the bride, or how they overcame Kathy’s objections to wasting a jumpsuit. I’m sure she would have marched down the aisle in her dress uniform without a second though. But she was trying so hard to be human…
It was only then that I realized I had never before seen Kathy in a dress. Not even in a uniform skirt. Jumpsuit, uniform, dress uniform, spacesuit, BDU’s, flight suit—yes. A dress? Never. It was unique and novel and my brain started to overheat. I think it nearly made me faint. Peng poked me in the ribs, anyway. I glanced at him and he waggled his eyebrows at me.
Captain Carl handed her off to me and I did my best to keep from hyperventilating.
A minute or two later, I realized the padre was talking. I dialed in on his voice and discovered we were mostly through the service. Someone, somewhere behind us, was sobbing. I’ve never understood why people cry at weddings. I had enough to do just standing up;
I couldn’t spare energy for crying.
About that point, I heard my cue. I said I did. Kathy said she did. Peng handed me the ring and Julie—Kathy’s bridesmaid—handed one to her. We exchanged rings by putting them on each other and I sincerely hope someone said I was allowed to kiss the bride, because I damn sure did.
I barely heard the shouting over the roaring in my ears. Let them shout. Nothing was touching this moment. It was Kathy, my wife, Mrs. Hardy, who mattered now. All the problems in the Universe could go slouch off across the street for a beer and wait to be called; I was busy.
After a lifetime or two, the sounds of the recessional blared from the speakers. The honor guard drew steel and formed arches of swords. Kathy and I skimmed lightly and quickly back down the aisle while guests threw something that at least looked like rice—it probably tasted like chicken, but it’s the thought that counts.
Then came the party.
A lot of wedding traditions are hard to come by on the Moon. I’d have thought flowers would have been tough, but they managed that. The cake was another story. We had one, but hardly what most people would think of as a wedding cake. I’m not complaining; I think I got more frosting than anybody. I know Kathy got more frosting on my face than I did on hers. Minx.
My minx. I’m still not fully grasping that.
Other traditions, though, were simple. Kathy tossed the bouquet for the ladies present; in lunar gravity it had a lot of hang time. In a couple of cases, so did the ladies jumping for it! I’ve never seen a more vicious scrum at a rugby match. The launching of the garter was, by comparison, mild—although I never did find out where they found a garter for her to wear. There was much whistling and hooting as I hiked Kathy’s skirt up to get it and take it down her leg, but that’s to be expected. What I did not expect was the heavy blush it provoked from her! I learn more and more about her every day.
As for the garter, I hooked it on a thumb, drew it back like a rubber band, and nailed Captain Carl square in the chest. I gave him my best innocent look. He didn’t buy it, so Kathy and I waved and smiled and took our leave of the cheery throng—many of whom were eyeing the Captain in what can only be termed a speculative fashion. Well, “predatory” might also apply. I noticed that Anne stuck close by our good Captain after that. Makes me wonder about those two.
