Luna

by Garon Whited

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”

  —Albert Einstein (1879 - 1955)

  The landing was not quite perfect, but I can’t fault Kathy for that. With no air to grab and not more than a few liters of fuel for control of attitude and altitude, I say she did a beautiful job. The Luna came down like a dropped anvil and hammered her gear. We were all slammed so hard I was reminded of an ejection seat. But we landed on the finished section of runway rather than in the dirt.

  Kathy kept us on the road and we rolled forever before she had to hit the electric motors. Landing on concrete without adequate thrusters to cushion it is bad for a ship, and the Luna’s landing gear had already been abused. Only one set of wheels still had power; I’d expected better. But we rolled, that was the important thing. Kathy pushed that one motor until it quit on us.

  We were left with a few hundred meters to hike. Big deal. I had one of the local paving ’bots stop by the ship and give us a ride. The things were designed to scoop up lunar dust, subject it to an electric furnace to melt it, and lay it down behind as a layer of slowly-cooling pavement. It was large enough for us all to hang on and fast enough—when not laying pavement—that it beat walking.

  Svetlana wound up stuffed into a life-support ball and hung outside like a pressurized piñata. Kathy made sure it was swinging freely under one wing of the ship and nodded in satisfaction. I was impressed; she didn’t even whack it with a stick. I mentioned my admiration for her self-restraint.

  “We don’t have a brig,” Kathy pointed out, “and I won’t have her aboard my ship while I’m not.”

  I had sense enough not to argue. Svetlana was lucky to be alive. Besides, we needed her suit. Galena didn’t have one, and—by letting everything out to its maximum adjustments—she could just barely squeeze into Svetlana’s. With luck, she wouldn’t be in it for long, but a life-support ball wasn’t an option in this case; we would be entering an airlock controlled by hostile forces. Bad time to be stuck in a sack.

  On our way to the airlock, I had Galena drive the ’bot while Kathy told us what Svetlana knew. According to our prisoner, the plan was to assassinate Captain Carl, declare a coup, and then lie in wait for the rest of us to come back. Svetlana was supposed to work on me and hopefully make me see the futility of fighting everybody, especially since, by the time the two of us returned, the Luna would have crashed. Or, if it landed safely, Kathy and the Marines would be dead from an ambush at the airlock.

  One of the most basic of all military concepts is the choke point. The idea is simple. When the enemy has to go through a given place, and when that place hinders the rate at which forces can go through, you fortify the daylights out of it to take full advantage of the enemy’s difficulties.

  Or, in simplest terms, you keep the door covered and shoot anything that moves.

  An airlock makes this much worse, of course, depending on the size of the forces involved. The main airlock into the base could easily hold everyone in the Luna and a dozen more; it’s designed for cargo transfers. There was a single-person airlock beside it for small-scale personnel transfer. Unfortunately both of these points of entry were right next to each other and could be covered by one guard.

  That’s all it would take. If someone sounded an alert or called for help when we started cycling the lock, reinforcements could be there and ready before we got in.

  My first thought—and that of Ensign Tsien—was “So what?” All of us were stronger, faster, better trained, and better armored than any of the old people who might argue with us. What made it a less-pleasant prospect was the other information Kathy obtained from Svetlana.

  “They have crossbows.”

  I gave that serious thought. They weren’t hard to make, if someone in the shop section was willing to help. Heck, half the parts for one could be requested without raising suspicion. The fiberglass cables would be kosher, as long as someone asked for a set of strings for a musical instrument. The cross-piece would have to be tempered to be springy, but I could think of half a dozen mechanical uses for a semi-flexible bar like that.

  I recalled a man who made razor blades. A resident, not a staffer. Razor blades. Ha. Arrowheads. Probably a lot more than just arrowheads…

  And they had access to my machine shop for the past few days.

  Four people with guns, backed by five more with sharp objects—swords and knives—could take the whole base if the opposition was limited to melee weapons. But with lots of ammunition, lots of manpower, and a good, long hallway—which they definitely had—we might not make it down that hall before some of us resembled hatracks. Maybe all of us.

  “So, what’s our plan?” I asked.

  “Do you recall our orders for the rescue of Galena?”

  “Go get her, kill anyone who doesn’t surrender instantly,” I answered.

  “We did that. Now, we’re out of touch with the base, so I’m assuming Captain Carl is not in control of it. We’re going to go rescue him. We will enter the base and we will kill anyone who does not surrender immediately. This is a war situation, men. President Andrews has led an armed uprising against the government of the Moon. We are going to put down this insurrection directly, simply, and as quickly as possible.”

  “That’s pretty clear,” I agreed. My mouth was dry. Time to act like an officer. “Aye aye, Commander.”

  “Good. Does anyone have any questions?”

  Ensign Tsien piped up. “Do you wish to redistribute the arms?”

  “Yes. You,” Kathy said, pointing at a Marine, “give Ensign Mishenkova your needle gun; she’s in no shape to be in close combat. Those of you with guns, keep them handy. Wu, give Max your saber; he’s better with it than you are, and you have a gun. Carry your knife in your off hand for close combat.”

  We rearranged our armaments and Kathy looked at me.

  “You know this base better than anyone. How are we getting in, Max?”

  “Through the airlock. But I’m going to need Galena’s help.”

  “Mine?” she asked, startled.

  “Yes. You’re the best person for what I have in mind.”

  “I will be glad to help. Only tell what I must do.”

  “Great,” I said. “We go in through the front door.” Kathy looked dubious.

  “Without getting holes punched in our spacesuits? And us?”

  “Yep. But first I have to cut some grooves in the airlock decking.”

  * * *

  I can imagine the activity in the base as the main airlock rumbled and the lights in the hallway started to flash. Someone on the outside! Someone opened the airlock! Someone is out there!

  People would be shouting, there would be running, and a lot of people would take up stations at the end of the hall. Crossbows would be cocked and loaded—with difficulty, as most of the oldsters weren’t exactly strong. Some of the more agile or skilled would be standing nearby with swords stolen from our armory, or freshly manufactured with my own equipment.

  Then would come the waiting and the wondering as the outer doors stayed open. Why? What could those people out there be doing? What are they planning? Is it some sort of trick? Why don’t they come in? Why? What’s going on? What’s happening out there?

  At last, the airlock’s outer doors clang home and the sound echoes through the aluminum and rock. Hissing sounds as air vents into the chamber, pressurizing it. Some would be calm, but most would feel the worry, the tension of knowing that a fight was about to start.

  Finally, the metallic clicking as the pressure equalized! Then the warning lights flashing overhead, yellow-gold and bright, as the doors hissed like a sack of angry cats and slid aside. A flood of white light blazed from the airlock, bright as the Sun, shining down the hallway.

  A half-dozen crossbow bolts whanged and clanged into the airlock; most of the guards were keyed up, nervous, and fired the instant the doors opened. I barely h
eard them through the hardsuit.

  Galena dropped the ’bot into gear and floored it. The treads gripped the deck quite well, especially after I carved grooves in the metal. The ’bot catapulted down the corridor, electric motor shrieking with a high whine at the upper end of audibility and the treads clanking like a runaway bulldozer or main battle tank.

  Which was pretty much what I used it for.

  We advanced behind it as fast as we could. If the crossbowmen had time to reload, they flubbed it. A couple of shots clanged from the ’bot as the few who held their fire finally panicked; both seemed to be aimed for Galena, but she was in a good position, higher up, hidden behind the glare of the lights, and with the majority of the ’bot between her and the attackers. They didn’t even hit one of the headlights.

  When the ’bot passed the corridor junction, Ensign Tsien fired one round from the slugthrower. The boom was like a cannon in the confined space. One of the residents shrieked, a tinny, tiny sound in the echoes of the shot, and collapsed with blood bubbling from a hole in his chest. Morale for the resident rebels—what was left of it—was literally shot to hell. They fled as fast as they could go.

  But we couldn’t allow them the chance to find their guts and regroup.

  We dashed around either side of the ’bot to cut them down as they ran. Blood ran in a red film all over the smooth decks of the corridor, and some nasty sprays of it managed to coat my suit and faceplate. I wiped at it with my off hand and silently thanked a God I wasn’t sure existed that I couldn’t smell it in my suit. I was tempted to throw up right there.

  I didn’t let it slow me down. Instead, I imagined Andrews under my blade. Captain Carl once gave me a lecture about Andrews and responsibility; I wanted to give Andrews an object lesson. Preferably one involving all the blood spilled by his grab for power. That desire just got stronger with every person I had to hurt; every cut I made was another one for Andrews’ account.

  We regrouped, cut strings on any crossbows we didn’t keep, and wasted half a minute loading the ones we did. Then we started sweeping through the base, room by room, following the ’bot down the corridors as we made for the control room. The ’bot couldn’t fit in the rooms—at least, not without taking out a chunk of wall; it was meant for surface work—but it made a great hallway sweeper.

  As we opened doors, we occasionally found people. They were mostly unarmed residents. Each time, they flung their hands up at the sight of us—we were all bloody; swords aren’t neat and clean when it cuts a chunk out from between the neck and shoulder. Blood sprays a lot farther in lunar gravity, too.

  We told them to sit tight and stay out of it, and I spot-welded the doors shut after each room sweep. We didn’t want to find out they were only pretending to be noncombatants, and I’m allergic to being shot in the back. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

  Then we came to the door to central control; someone in there wasn’t too bad with a crossbow. He put a groove in Yuan’s helmet as we opened the door and we all dove out of the line of fire. Yuan told us he saw the guy inside holding another crossbow in his other hand. Someone behind the control desk was probably loading for the crossbowman.

  Now Kathy ordered neck seals opened so we could hear a little better. She took her helmet off to shout. We would have slid our faceplates up, but the protection they offered was a good thing; Kathy just stayed out of the line of fire.

  “Surrender now and you’ll live!” she shouted.

  “Like that guy on the station did?” came the reply. “Like hell!”

  “Wu, cross in front of the door, quickly,” she said, softly. “Yuan, take position with your needle gun and drop the bastard when Wu draws his fire.” We arranged ourselves and Wu took a deep breath. He bounced across the open doorway, pointing his gun at the crossbowman. The guy inside popped a shot off and winged Wu, mainly through luck, I’d say. But Yuan was either equally lucky or a good shot. There was a chuff! from the pistol and a gasp from the control room.

  “Now, let’s try that again,” Kathy called. “Would you like to surrender and get medical attention, or would you like to bleed to death?”

  The response was not polite. One might even call it rude. Kathy turned to me.

  “Ideas, Mr. Brilliance?”

  “The ’bot won’t fit through the door.”

  “I figured.”

  “Let’s leave them here,” I suggested, “and sweep the machine shop. I’ve got a thought.”

  “I hate leaving them here,” she said.

  “So do I. But I hate being shot even more.”

  “I bow before your impeccable logic.”

  We went through the base as a group, ready to shoot, cut, stab, or run over anything that came into view. Nothing bothered us, and we made sure my shop was empty. I wondered what happened to my crew. Surely Andrews wasn’t fool enough to think he could operate the base equipment without the younger folks? Or did some of the former staffers join up with him, thinking to side with the winners?

  My guys wouldn’t. I was certain. But if my boys and girls had been tricked into some sort of trap… I just hoped they were alive.

  Suddenly, the urge to kill somebody was strong. I didn’t even mind the smell of blood on my suit. If they killed my kids, I’d be helping Julie stuff the rebel survivors into a meat grinder. Feet first, so they could watch it happen.

  I put aside those thoughts and unplugged the cameras in the shop; I didn’t want the guys in the control room to know what was coming. Ten minutes later, I had everything set up and was stamping out tall, aluminum shields. Nothing fancy; just an aluminum plate with a forearm loop and a handhold.

  “It’s not a phalanx,” Kathy observed, as we lined up and presented shields, “but it ought to keep us from getting shot.” She shook her head. “Crossbows, swords, and shields… on the Moon. Of all the things I thought I might be doing up here….” She sighed.

  “At any rate,” she continued, “good work, Max. Now, let’s give our swept areas a quick once-over and then take that control room.”

  We swung through our swept areas again at a trot. Apparently, the majority of the people in the base were either confined or unwilling to fight; nobody was hunting us, which worried me. It worried Kathy, too. We had maybe a quarter of the former residents locked in, with no sign of staffers. But then, we’d only covered about a third of the base. There would be plenty more, either hiding from a fight or getting ready for one.

  In the control room, we went in one at a time, shields before us, and formed up as a shield wall just inside the door. There was considerable swearing from the people occupying it as their projectiles bounced. We marched into battle, closing to hand-to-hand range. This time, we didn’t kill them all; we managed to capture two of the five.

  Kathy questioned them. I didn’t care to watch, so I listened to the questioning while I kept my eyes on the door.

  “Where are the rest of you?” she demanded.

  “Down in the environment controls!” he answered, sounding panicked.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “I don’t know!”

  There was a shriek, and Kathy repeated her question. Kipling was correct. The female of the species is more deadly than the male. And more vicious, ruthless, and downright mean. But she got results in double-quick time.

  “The air!” he half-screamed, half-sobbed. “They control the air! They’ll break it!”

  “They’re planning on it? Or just holding the air as a hostage?”

  “Hostage!”

  “Fair enough. Now, where’s Captain Carl?”

  “I don’t know—” he began, and rapidly added, “—butIthinkhesintheinfirmary!”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “He was wounded. Maybe he’s dead.”

  “Why didn’t you make sure and finish him off?” Kathy demanded.

  “He didn’t send all the Marines with you,” he answered. “We thought he did. They grabbed him, killed a couple of us, and they’re holed up in the infirmary with
the other officers.”

  “Ah. All right.”

  “Ask him where all the staffers are,” I suggested. “I haven’t seen anyone under the age of sixty.”

  “That’s a good point. What happened to them?”

  “They’re in one of the large conference rooms.”

  “How did you manage that?”

  “They were called to a meeting on the announcing system. Some of us were sent to relieve the ones on duty. Once they were in and the door shut, it was just welded closed.”

  “Can they breathe?” Kathy demanded.

  “Yes. At least, the last time I heard.”

  “Good. That’s more than I can say for you.”

  There was a wet sound, and a gurgling. The other prisoner screamed, and the sound was repeated.

  The female of the species is much more deadly than the male. Especially Kathy.

  * * *

  We searched the rest of the base through the control room cameras. Several of them were down, most notably in Captain Carl’s office, the infirmary, and Julie’s recycling plant; we knew why the cameras in my shop bay were down. There were a few groups of armed people prowling around—apparently scouting forces. We left Galena to be our eye in the sky from the control room and Wu as a guard for her.

  The first thing we did was cut open the door to the staffers’ prison. My word, but they were glad to see us. They were also quite hungry, having missed a few meals. I wondered if the residents had a plan for feeding them, or if the staffers were just locked in there to die. One or two staffers were missing, had switched sides, persuaded before the attempted coup. The rest of the staffers never had a chance to switch sides, but all of them were ready to crack some skulls after being locked up.

  I did okay at wargames when I was in school; moving units around on a board is something I can do effectively and mercilessly. Leading a bunch of guys over a hill? I can do that, too. I have no trouble leading from the front. My trouble is calculating probable casualties and ordering live people into situations that will get a percentage of them killed.