Luna

by Garon Whited

  “Hold your fire,” I ordered. I told Tsien, through gesture, to get three men and circle to our left. When the approaching figures were fifty meters away, I called to them.

  “Okay, you two… bear to your right and keep walking.” They paused for a second, then turned about forty-five degrees to their right, walking slowly. That was fine by me. Tsien and three other Marines met them, took them into custody. The two wound up being cradled like babies in the arms of a pair of robots, an ankle and the neck seal grappled by the hands, and the rest of them tied in place.

  “Since two of you were sensible, I’m restarting the timer,” I said. “The rest of you have five more minutes to come out with your hands up.”

  We waited for five minutes. I tapped Chen on the shoulder and he fired. The round hit the airlock door again, up high, and I can only imagine how it must have looked and felt inside the shelter.

  “Damn you!” came over the radio. “We’re coming out! Give us some time to get our suits sealed!”

  “Sure. Take your time, as long as it’s less than two minutes. Don’t try to tell me you didn’t start getting into suits the moment we put a hole in the shelter. Chen, Yuan, flip your guns over to automatic fire and get ready to empty the magazines!”

  Chen tapped me on the shoulder and pressed helmets with me. I made sure my microphone was off.

  “Boss, we haven’t got a full-auto setting on these things,” he told me. “We didn’t build a loading mechanism for the injector.”

  “I know, but it sounds good, okay?”

  “Oh. Right. Wanna tell Yuan?”

  “Good idea. I’ll do that.” I touched helmets with Yuan and made sure he understood. He sighed at me and shook his head.

  The other four came out of the shelter, one by one, cycling through the airlock. There wasn’t much point to the airlock, but it was still a barrier to easy access. I had them line up side by side as they came out. Then, one at a time, they were allowed to approach and be taken into custody.

  Andrews, as I expected, came last.

  “Hi, Edwin,” I said, as Tsien and Weng tied him up.

  “I’ll thank you to address me as ‘President Andrews’,” he snapped.

  “President of what?” I countered. “Tsien, make sure he stays quiet for the trip home. I’ve listened to him more than he deserves and I don’t feel like hearing him blab anymore.”

  Tsien turned Andrews’ vox switch off with a solid whack to the helmet. I don’t think Tsien liked him much, either. Then he turned to me and touched helmets again.

  “We aren’t just going to shoot them, sir?” he asked.

  I left my microphone on and said, “We aren’t going to shoot them,” I said, to everyone. “We’re taking them back, as ordered. If they hadn’t surrendered, then we would have shot them all. Now we have to go through the trouble of a court martial.”

  “Would’ve been simpler to shoot them,” someone muttered. I couldn’t tell who; suit radios don’t care what direction a signal comes from.

  “Yes, it would,” I agreed, “but they’re not known for being considerate. Now pack everything back up, men, and change each other’s air. We’ve got a lot of kilometers to roll.”

  * * *

  One good thing about being trapped in a bunker—or outside a bunker—with Svetlana was my complete lack of information. I made a lousy witness. After a grueling half-hour on the stand, I was excused. Others, however, spent considerably longer explaining to Kathy exactly where they were and what they were doing and what they saw.

  Me, I got busy on making orbit-to-ground reentry capsules. I figured we’d need them. It took a little while to get the production started, but I’d already put most of the necessary skull sweat into the modifications of the original design. All that was left was telling the shop robots. It felt good to watch them run, as complex as the interior of a mechanical watch and as just as smooth while they swiveled and turned and stamped.

  It was nice to be home.

  As people in my shop section were turned loose from the witness chair, we started work on the Luna. The cargo bay doors were simplest; we sent out a squad of road-grading robots and dragged each one back. And, most important, while those ’bots were busily hauling large chunks of metal across the frozen darkness of the Moon, I had every digging robot start work on hollowing out more mountain.

  Putting the Luna back together was a big job, and I wanted a pressure hangar before I started.

  So much to do, so much to do…

  I put Chuck and Hashiko on remote controls and had them go over the coilgun track. The blasting hadn’t damaged any of the rings in the tunnel, possibly because the charges weren’t at full strength. I fired a test slug myself, just to make sure. It went out smoothly and right on the computer-projected track. That was good news.

  Well, good news to me. I doubted Andrews was going to find it very pleasing.

  By the end of the first day of questioning, I was plenty tired, but feeling good about the world. The base’s hatches closed properly again, our ship was on its way to being repaired, our big honkin’ space gun was working, we were about a quarter of the way through carving out space for a hangar, and my loved ones were all home.

  Kathy, however, was not a happy camper. She came into our quarters looking frayed around the edges, cold-eyed, and without a single laugh line anywhere on her face. She sat down on one of the chairs—there were two, aluminum frame things with glass-fiber straps for the seat and back—and scrubbed at her face with the palms of her hands.

  I was tired, yes, but not foolish. I got her a damp towel and a glass of water, sat down in the other chair, and waited for an opportunity to do something else nice.

  She wiped her face, drank some water. She smiled at me, or tried to. Her mouth cooperated, but the rest of her wasn’t having any.

  “Would you like to tell me about your day?” I asked, cautiously.

  “Did you have a good day?” she countered.

  I paused. Was the right answer to admit that I did, making her jealous and angry because she hadn’t? Or was the right answer to say I had a lousy day, and make her indignant and snappish because hers was obviously so much worse?

  “My day was good,” I answered. “I got a lot done. But yours obviously didn’t go so well.”

  She nodded, and I kept an eye on the glass. I didn’t want her to break it, and her grip was looking dangerously tight.

  “I have spent the day listening to the same damned story over and over. People telling me what they know, or think they know, about Andrews and his rebellion—what?” she asked, as I gently tried to take the glass away from her. She glanced at it, saw her own white knuckles, and consciously let go of it.

  “And you’re a little keyed up,” I said, moving the glass away from her.

  “I’d like to shoot Andrews in the neck and be done with all this!” she admitted, coldly. “He’s a weasel. No, he’s a snake. No, I can’t think of an animal to insult.”

  “So why don’t you shoot him?” I asked. “You’re the CO. You have the authority.”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied, and sighed. She slumped down in the chair and looked exhausted.

  “Maybe you’re worried about what Captain Carl will say?”

  “Maybe,” she agreed, but didn’t sound sure. “I think… I think I’m more concerned about the example I’m setting. That’s not quite right, but that’s sort of what I mean.”

  “You’re not worried that anyone else needs an example to follow of how to be a commanding officer. You’re trying to show everyone that the job of CO can’t just be an arbitrary, whimsical thing?”

  “That’s closer. Still not all of it, but that will do.” She rose and stretched; I heard her back pop. “Can I talk you into sleeping with me tonight? Nothing else, just sleeping?”

  “I’d say so. A woman in your condition should be pampered in her whims.”

  “Jerk,” she replied, but smiled at me. I was glad to see that smile. “Have you give
n any thought on names?”

  “How can I?” I asked. “I don’t even know what gender you picked.”

  “I like giving you surprises,” she said, unzipping her coverall. “So pick a name for a boy and a girl, and if I like them, I might use them.”

  “Gee, thanks.” I got up and helped her out of her outfit. She turned in my arms, naked as an egg, and slowly drew down the zipper on my own coverall.

  “You’re welcome. Now, take me to bed and comfort me, you big ape. I’m in a delicate condition.”

  “ ‘Comfort’ you?” I asked. “Did you change your mind about doing nothing but sleeping?”

  She pushed my coverall down before making a long arm and dimming the lights.

  “I don’t change my mind,” she whispered. “I just make it up again.”

  The things I do for my commanding officer.

  * * *

  The court martial took three days. Kathy listened to everyone who had anything to say, including the rebels. I wondered at that. I half-expected her to go ahead and feed them to the recycling plant. But she listened, asked, even interrogated her way to finding out exactly what happened, when it happened, how it happened, and—whenever possible—why it happened.

  Then she took an hour off to consider. She didn’t ask for my opinions, and I didn’t offer them. Sometimes being in command means getting all the facts and making up one’s own mind. For the three days of the trial and deliberation, I did my best to be quietly helpful when she came back into our quarters. I was there for her if she needed or wanted anything, no matter how tired I was, and I kept my mouth shut.

  I made sure to be in the messhall with everyone else when she reconvened the court and delivered her verdict. Kathy looked good in her dress uniform, even if it was a bit tight around the middle.

  “Edwin Andrews, stand and be judged.” Kathy’s voice was coolly dispassionate.

  Andrews stood up behind the table and faced her. His hands, like the others’, were tied together, but their feet were free to allow them to walk without being dragged. He said nothing, but looked somewhere between defiant and resigned.

  “Do you still maintain that you are President of the North American Federation of States?” she continued.

  “I am,” he answered, loud and clear.

  “Then you are found guilty of the following charges. Rebellion, constituting an armed uprising against the established government of Luna with intent to overthrow it. Assault, and assault with battery, on citizens of Luna. Attempted murder of citizens of Luna. Murder of citizens of Luna. Attempted assassination of the commanding officer of Luna base. Conspiracy to commit the previous charges. Theft. Destruction of property. Reckless endangerment. Extortion. Interference with base personnel in the performance of their duties. And conspiracy to commit the previous crimes. ”

  I blinked. Well, that pretty much covered it. I wondered about the extortion charge, though. Maybe they blackmailed someone with threats or something.

  “The penalty for many of these crimes involves a period of confinement,” Kathy continued. “The more severe crimes include the penalty of death.”

  A murmur went through the crowd. Kathy rapped the gavel once to quiet everyone.

  “President Andrews, since you and your fellow conspirators maintain that you are visitors to our world and therefore not under my command—you maintain you are a separate political entity from lunar authority—I have other options. At present, we have had no communication with your territorial government to confirm or deny your claim to sovereignty. Because of this, I feel it prudent to give you the benefit of the doubt.

  “The Moon will not take summary action against you or your fellow conspirators.”

  There was a momentary pause before Andrews, looking confused, spoke.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that the lunar authority will not sentence you for your crimes against it. It also means that all diplomatic relations with your government are now broken off. You will depart lunar soil as soon as it is practical to do so. Since you have no transportation of your own, the lunar government is pleased to provide it.

  “Let President Andrews and his co-conspirators be taken from this court and deported to terrestrial soil within the bounds of their chosen country. This court,” she finished, “is closed.”

  Kathy slammed the gavel down, and the Marines removed the prisoners. There was excited whispering and a lot of various looks as they went.

  I slid out through the crowd and headed down to the shop. I was right about needing reentry capsules.

  Captain Carl was waiting for me. I came to a halt just inside the hatch and blinked stupidly at him for a bit. He was seated on the fold-down seat of a circuit burner unit, resting his clasped hands on top of a cane.

  “You’re making a draft,” he noted. I closed my mouth and the hatch.

  “Good to see you up,” I replied. “Feeling okay?”

  “The tyrant has restricted me from duty,” he said, smiling. “I’m trying to stay quiet.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a good idea after you get holes poked in you. And after some Regenex. Trust me, I ought to know.”

  “I know. Shall we talk in your office, Max?”

  “Sure.” I opened the door and held it for him. He pushed himself to his feet and limped in, leaning on his cane. That bothered me quite a bit. In lunar gravity, a man can get by with one leg and a cane. The fact he was limping on it was a bad sign. I wondered just how bad it was.

  He settled into a chair and I parked myself at my terminal.

  “I’d offer you something to drink, but I don’t keep anything in my office.”

  “I’m fine,” he replied.

  “Where were you shot, by the way?”

  “The right leg. I tried to walk on it after I was shot. It still isn’t happy with me.”

  “I figured. So, what did you want to talk about?”

  He smiled at me and leaned back in the chair.

  “Your evaluation, Max.”

  I felt my eyebrows climbing. “I was being evaluated? For what?”

  “Command fitness.”

  I thought about that for several seconds.

  “Being shot in the leg wouldn’t knock you out for a week or more,” I noted. He smiled wider and nodded.

  “Go on.”

  “Did the Marines really carry you into the infirmary?”

  “No. Oh, I leaned on one a bit as I hopped along. The bolt missed the artery, but it shredded a lot of muscle. The story they told you was one I worked out with Anne.”

  “So how long have you really been out of it?”

  “I haven’t.”

  I considered that. How much of this was planned, how much was circumstantial, how much was just a risk?

  “Did you engineer the rebellion?” I finally asked.

  “No. Andrews did that on his own. But I daresay I knew more about how it would go than Andrews did.” He went on to explain a bit. When Captain Carl first overheard discussions about seizing power—he’d kept an ear on Andrews as a precaution—he started planning to use the rebellion.

  “I can’t go on forever, son,” he continued. “Someday, someone else will have to take command. I was worried how Commander Edwards—excuse me—Kathy would handle the responsibility. Her tendency to think like a combat pilot is not a good thing when in command of a base. I needed to know if she could rise above that.

  “As long as I was in charge, she knew that a level head was there to keep her from going overboard. In many ways, I was a leash on her attack instincts. I had to know if she possessed the self-discipline to be a commanding officer. Today she proved it to me. She heard the rebels out, listened to all the testimony, and considered everything before rendering a judgment. She showed me that she could consider something dispassionately, even when her feelings told her to just kill the people involved.” He chuckled. “I don’t agree completely with her verdict, but I’ll support it.

  “As for you… can you g
uess what I was testing, Max?”

  “Not much to guess about,” I answered. “You were checking to see if I could step up and kill people that needed killing.” I shrugged. “I’m a softie. Everyone knows that.”

  “Very close. You can kill, Max; I knew that. But I needed to know you could do it in person. Button-pushing is all very well. Locking someone in a bathroom to die isn’t direct. Cutting someone down, taking a sharpened bit of metal and putting it into another human being until he stops struggling—that’s killing.

  “The ability to kill isn’t the only qualification for command, but it is a necessary one. I’m pleased to say that you do not kill until you see a need for it… but you don’t shirk the duty. And that is what I needed to know. You will do what you determine is necessary, even when you hate it.”

  I considered this.

  “Do you mean to say,” I asked, “that this rebellion could have been avoided? All that stuff about needing actions rather than words was just so you could run a test? Everyone who died, died just for your reassurance that Kathy and I are fit successors? Is that it?”

  He shook his head. “No, son. No. Listen to me.

  “This rebellion was going to happen no matter what we did. People who have no self-discipline can’t be taught discipline. One can’t force discipline on the unwilling. They would have been malcontents and troublemakers for the rest of their lives, and maybe even lethal to all of us in their discontent. It was better to let them sort themselves out, stand up and be counted, and then excised from the body politic as quickly as possible.”

  He sighed and rubbed one hand across his forehead. He looked a little pale.

  “It was still a risk,” he stated, “but a necessary one. Testing for command potential isn’t something one can do solely in a classroom. We do it constantly, through observation, as when you recommended Peng for Chief Petty Officer. But have you ever noticed how the captain of a ship is always a veteran? Someone tried by fire in armed conflict?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “That is the acid test. A man can be a fine officer under another’s command, yet go utterly to pieces when the whole load of responsibility lands on him. Kathy didn’t; she held on, rose above her own habits of thought, and faced the responsibility of being a leader. You haven’t had that, not the way she has, but you’ve seen, now, as Kathy saw as my XO. The job scares you, but you aren’t afraid of it, if you see what I mean.”