Déjà Doomed

by Edward M. Lerner

  “I’m a big guy. Caves? Often not so big. Pass.”

  “Okay,” Marcus said. “You keep doing what you’re doing. We’ll stay in touch.”

  “Roger that. Be careful.”

  “Always,” Marcus said.

  Donna was closest to the lava-tube opening, and he bounded toward her. Together they made their way in long, flat arcs to the map coordinates on their HUDs. There, just above ground level at the base of a rugged cliff face, gaped a jack-o’-lantern grin at least three meters wide. Where “teeth” did not protrude, the opening was almost two meters tall.

  Marcus said, “Not quite what I was expecting.”

  Donna turned toward him. “You sure about this?”

  Squatting, he peered inside. The opening faced almost due north, and charcoal-gray and darker rock drank in most of what little sunlight managed to enter. Switching on his helmet lamps, he saw loose gravel and a few fist-sized rocks. It was hard to believe that lava had ever flowed here, or anywhere on this long-dead world.

  “Call me curious. I’m going inside. You can wait here, if you wish.”

  She laughed. “That’s not how ‘not caving alone’ works.”

  He said, “Brad, you copy all that?”

  “I copy. Stay in touch, boys and girls.”

  “Will do,” Marcus said. He stepped inside, careful not to bump his helmet or oxygen tanks. While he looked around, getting his bearings, Donna joined him.

  The tube angled downward at about ten degrees, its rock floor all but free of regolith after his first few paces. From the start, Donna had ample headroom, while Marcus walked bent forward at the waist. After about twenty paces, the tube enlarged enough for Marcus to stand straight, although to walk in the low gravity without bonking his helmet still took concentration.

  Again and again they encountered scattered chunks of loose rock, doubtless dislodged by meteorite impacts overhead. Where lava stalactites had once descended, only stumps remained. After stumbling twice, he kept his head—and helmet lamps—tipped down toward the uneven ground. Even then, without air to diffuse the light, and with dark rock all around, maintaining his footing was tricky. After his second stumble, Marcus set his headlamp beams on their tightest focus. The walls all but vanished into the gloom.

  “You still”—crackle—“us?” Brad radioed.

  “We’re fine,” Marcus said. “But you’re breaking up.”

  “… Breaking up.” Crackle. “… deep?”

  “Yeah, I suppose we are getting pretty deep. The tube slopes down and, at least the way I read the topo map, we’ve moved under some upthrust terrain. We’ll turn around soon.”

  “… py that.”

  Donna grabbed his elbow. She had a fiber-optic cable jacked into her helmet and offered him the other end.

  He jacked in. “What’s up?”

  “Look around. Really look.”

  He turned his head slowly, sweeping the overlapped beams of his helmet lamps across the nearest wall. Paler than near the tunnel opening, he decided. And smooth? He could not feel any texture through pressure-suit gloves. And the tube floor, as pale as the wall, although it continued to slope downward, had become flat from side to side.

  “This isn’t natural,” she said.

  “Not even close,” he agreed. “It’s as if someone lined the tube with mooncrete. We should keep going.”

  Ahead of them, the passageway curved left. They rounded the bend.

  “We have an artifact,” Marcus announced with satisfaction.

  “A relic,” she countered. “But wow.”

  A robot, built like a small tank. On dual treads, one snapped, for propulsion. Rather than an artillery barrel, two telescoping arms, terminating in mismatched grippers, protruded from its turret. The main body was about a meter and a half long, and half a meter both wide and tall. The squat turret added another quarter meter of height. Here and there, but mostly around an access panel into the turret, the metal surface bore scratches. There was no obvious power source, and he guessed fuel cells or rechargeable batteries.

  “That should be fun for someone to study,” Donna said. “Do you think we can do better?”

  “One way to find out.”

  The passageway again curved, this time to the right. They rounded this bend and—

  A prone figure. Bipedal, but enormous: at least two and a half meters long, and a good meter across the shoulders. Apart from a large yellow patch, applied just above one of the bulky boots, what they could see of its pressure suit, all in emerald green, appeared intact. Unlike Marcus’s suit, all blotched and stained with regolith, this suit was spotless. And, on second look, the body was not quite prone: it was up on one knee. An arm—with double elbows, and a two-fingered, two-thumbed hand—stretched ahead.

  Marcus began taking close-ups with his helmet camera, forgoing an I-told-you-so about having brought X-ray gear. “It’s as if he”—with no reason to suppose a particular gender—“died crawling. But toward what?”

  Donna crouched for a look through the side of the visor. “He reminds me of our friend from Ethan’s video.” She stood. “Let’s go a bit farther.”

  They gave a wide berth to the remains, lest those, like what Ethan had found, crumble at a touch. The tunnel continued curving, and they kept walking, until it terminated in a concrete barrier. Traces of the ubiquitous regolith had found their way even down here, whether hitchhiking on alien boots or bounced down the tunnel over the ages, by meteorite strikes and moonquakes. Apart from a few random-seeming grooves near the floor, the wall was smooth. At its center was shiny metal: the outer hatch of an airlock. They took turns peering through its gray-tinted, inset porthole. The view within was murky, despite helmet lamps scant centimeters from the porthole. Marcus guessed the glass was polarized. The airlock was empty.

  The inner hatch also had a porthole. It was black and utterly opaque. Polarized at right angles to the first porthole, he deduced. It would have been nice to catch a glimpse into the alien facility, but the aliens must have liked their privacy.

  “Brad needs to see this,” Marcus said. “Brad!” he called. “Brad, buddy, are you there?”

  In response came only static.

  “We’re too deep,” Donna said.

  “Must be. We better get back up.” Because Tyler really needed to hear about this.

  They reversed course. Past the alien. Past where tunnel walls and floor reverted to native lunar rock. Past a narrowing in the passageway too constricting for two to walk abreast, and they undid their fiber-optic link. Past a bend to where loose stones again lie scattered on the uneven floor. Ahead, just beyond the entrance, silhouetted against a star-spangled sky: a helmeted figure. Brad.

  “Guys!” Brad radioed, sounding frantic. “You need to get up here.”

  “We’re fine.” They were on a secure channel, but rather than spoil the surprise, Marcus added only, “C’mon down, buddy. Have a look.”

  “No! Outside. Now!” Brad turned back the way he had come. “Move it!”

  “Roger that.”

  When, minutes later, Marcus exited the tunnel, he understood. Perhaps a kilometer away, about midway between them and the igloo, a lunar shuttle descended on its final approach. Marcus wondered, how could Tyler already know? We haven’t even called in the find yet.

  But as Marcus dialed up zoom mode on his visor, he knew better. The side of the approaching shuttle bore a flag. That emblem was red, white, and blue—with but a single broad stripe of each color.

  The Russians were coming.

  SECRECY

  Chapter 11

  Like the furrows of a plowed field, row upon row of boot prints scored the regolith: a survey pattern. Serpentine tread tracks approached from the west, made by the commercial bot inert at mid “field.” More widely separated sets of tread and tire tracks came in from the east, made by Jud
son’s convoy. Those vehicles and an inflated shelter huddled close at hand. Pits, perhaps test bores, and gravel heaps from those pits, dotted the landscape.

  It’s how a mining-claim site might look, Yevgeny thought, completing his second low, circling pass, eyeballing several flat and more-or-less rubble-free expanses as candidate landing zones. But the dark blue, pressure-suited figure bounding away from that “field” with great kangaroo leaps, following a double line of boot tracks? That seemed no more normal than the anxious voice on a traffic-control channel: “Shuttle on approach near Humboldt Crater, this is a … um … restricted area.”

  A man’s voice. Not Marcus Judson: Yevgeny had samples of Judson’s voice from Dirtside. Brad Morton, then, information Yevgeny had no innocent reason to hold and no reason to admit. Stressed, without a doubt. Morton might be the amiable big lug suggested by his dossier, and just as Paul Sokolov had described. Likely Judson had had to scrounge up support staff for … whatever this expedition was about.

  As had Yevgeny. In accent-free American English, he responded, “Person broadcasting from the vicinity of Humboldt Crater, what do you mean, restricted?”

  What he wanted to know, but there was no point in asking: was it pure bad luck that Morton had looked up at just the right time to spot this ship? Or was this site being surveilled by satellite, and so the American team had been alerted?

  “We’re working a mining claim.”

  Yevgeny glowered at the three people in the back cabin, interrupting their boisterous discussion of the barren terrain beneath. Odd details and bold speculations about the Americans’ expedition had brought him this far, but his recruits knew nothing. A cash bonus for fieldwork had sufficed to entice two of them; supervisory arm-twisting had convinced the third to “volunteer.” Inducements and coercion alike had taken behind-the-scenes string-pulling; he would know soon enough whether involving Moscow in his investigation had been wise—or career limiting.

  He radioed, “We are conducting a scientific survey. Your mineral rights are not an issue.”

  “I, um … if you … you being around will get in the way of our work.”

  “We’ll be on the ground soon, and then we’ll come over and introduce ourselves. Sort matters out.”

  The cockpit scanner flagged Morton’s transmitter jumping to another frequency band, the associated transmission all clicks, hisses, and static. Of course, helmet comps lacked the capacity to manage any encryption scheme that was at all secure; the FSB software long since downloaded into the shuttle’s comm console needed mere seconds to break into the private channel. “… in, damn it. Marcus. Donna. Come in. Now!”

  No response came, and Morton kept running. “Guys, we’ve got a situation … on our … hands. Get out … here!”

  Winded, Yevgeny decided. Not, this time, at a loss for words. Over the open channel, he radioed, “See you soon.”

  “That’s really … not necessary,” Morton insisted over the same channel, verging on breathless, skidding to a halt near the yawning mouth of a lava tube. “We’re very … busy. Maybe give us a … call in a few days?” Returning to the private channel, he added, “Guys! You need to get up here.”

  This time, a weak, crackling voice responded on the private channel. “We’re fine. C’mon down, bud … a look.”

  “No! Outside. Now!” Morton insisted. “Move it!”

  Yevgeny vectored in for a landing, more than a little curious why Marcus Judson sounded so exuberant. By the time he had set down the shuttle, the Americans had emerged from the lava tube. As soon as everyone was suited up, Yevgeny led his team toward the tube’s entrance; the Americans, moving briskly, set a course to intercept.

  “Can we help you?” Judson radioed on an open channel.

  “We’re doing a geological survey.” Yevgeny pointed behind the Americans. “We’re particularly interested in lava tubes.”

  Judson said, “I’m afraid looking at this one won’t be possible. This whole area is covered by a mining claim. Your mere presence could compromise our work here.”

  Yevgeny and his team kept walking. “We will be careful.”

  “A moment, please,” Judson said. The Americans paused where they were, helmets touching as they consulted, mics off. Too bad, Yevgeny thought. If only they had switched to a “secure” channel, he would have had a decrypted transcript waiting for him back in the shuttle. He found it instructive that they had taken the extra precaution. As the gap narrowed to perhaps a hundred meters, he motioned his team to stop.

  The middle by height among the three Americans—that would be Judson—separated from that group, and Yevgeny loped ahead to meet him. Halfway there, glancing back over his shoulder, he saw Ilya and Ekatrina waiting as directed. Nikolay had wandered off a few paces to kneel in contemplation of a rocky outcropping.

  The Americans all wore fishbowl helmets, and at five meters the identification was unmistakable. As in the pictures Yevgeny had studied, Judson had strong features and an intelligent, purposeful gaze. Unlike those dossier photos, he had dull skin, bloodshot eyes, and several day’s start on a salt-and-pepper beard.

  As they converged, Yevgeny said, “We have every right to do our survey.”

  “Let’s start over. I’m Marcus Judson, director of the Farside Observatory.” He regurgitated the pretext about a carbon shortage, almost word for word per the script all three had recited before their convoy set out. The twitching eyelid was an impressive touch; the hint of tremor in his voice was overdone. Innocent miners, concerned about their claim? Hah! Such dramatics only reinforced Yevgeny’s skepticism. “This is the first really promising spot we’ve found.”

  Judson had not identified his companions—because a paramedic and a mechanical engineer did not support the pathetic cover story?—so neither did Yevgeny introduce his. “Yevgeny Rudin, pilot from Base Putin. Congratulations if you have located something useful.”

  “Good to meet you, Yevgeny. I appreciate you understanding.”

  “I understand that no one owns the Moon, or any celestial body. That is international law. Hence, your claim applies only to mineral rights. Subsurface rights. Everyone has the right to free passage, and right now, my colleagues and I will pass over to study that lava tube.”

  “The thing is,” Judson said hurriedly, “we’ve also claimed tunnel rights. The lava tube is the start of a tunnel we’ll be making for our subsurface explorations. Sorry.”

  Tunnel rights? The mining claim on file made no mention of them. But if there were such a thing as tunnel rights, one of the other Americans might be netting to Earth even now to file for them, while Judson stalled.

  Enough! Something important must be inside that lava tube. “We will have a look, before your digging disturbs the natural formation. Let your lawyers do their worst.” Sidestepping, Yevgeny called to his team. “Ekatrina. Gentlemen. Let’s have a look.”

  The American leapt backward, blocking Yevgeny. “I, uh, would like to check in with my superiors. Before this situation gets too complicated. Would you mind waiting aboard your shuttle? Just for a short while.”

  As I shall report to my superiors. Judson’s consultation confirmed, however obliquely, that more than mineral development was at issue here. “The administrator of NASA.”

  Judson did not bat an eye. “Yes.”

  “Meanwhile, you and your people will return in your shelter? And the robot will remain where it is?”

  “Not to worry, we could all use a rest. And forget about the bot, it’s junk. Didn’t make it through the last lunar night. Evidently, the battery gave out and something critical froze. It’s not going anywhere.”

  The bot’s solar panels were oriented to snag the final rays of the setting Sun—useless now, in the lunar dawn. Perhaps the bot hadn’t survived the nocturnal deep freeze. “All right,” Yevgeny said. “We will wait, for now.”

  Because if any of the American
s did leave their portable shelter—or radar showed any ship headed this way—he would have his shuttle up to the lava-tube entrance in a flash. There was, alas, nowhere nearby suitable for setting down; the team would have to hop out while he hovered.

  “We will wait,” Yevgeny repeated.

  “I’ll be in touch,” Judson said. He and his colleagues strode toward their shelter and, Yevgeny assumed, an ultrasecure CIA comm link to Earth.

  * * *

  “Can you keep them out?” Tyler Pope responded to Marcus’s report, not even commenting on the incredible discovery. The three-second comm delay made Pope’s customary imperturbability that much more trying.

  “Keep them out.” Marcus repeated. “How the hell would we do that?”

  Another interminable three seconds. “I’ll take that as a no.” An only slightly shorter pause. “Wouldn’t do any good, anyway, in the long run. Any show of force would only further convince your Russian friends the lava tube holds something important. They’d be back, soon enough, and more than four of them.” Tyler stroked his chin for awhile. “Okay, this is above my pay grade. Stay put for now. Let me know ASAP if any Russians leave their shuttle.”

  “Show of force?” Donna mouthed.

  “While what happens at your end?” Marcus asked.

  “First, I do my due diligence, in particular with your helmet-camera footage from inside the lava tube. Standard procedure. Once that checks out, I’ll run this news up a very short chain.”

  “Up to whom?” Brad asked.

  “I expect to the president.” More chin stroking. “Yevgeny Rudin. Flying out of Base Putin. Do I have those right? Good call, by the way, getting his picture, too. I’ll run facial rec.”

  “Guys?” Marcus asked.

  “That’s what I heard,” Donna said. Brad just nodded.

  “You have it right,” Marcus said.

  “Rudin called out to Ekatrina and gentlemen,” Donna offered. “His people were too far away to gauge anything but their heights, but on that basis two men and a woman would fit.”