Moonrise (43 page)

“Message coming in from Tucson,” interrupted the chief technician. “Voice only. Radiation levels beginning to decrease slightly around Venus’s orbit. We can expect the storm to end in five to ten hours.”

“Great!” Greg almost wanted to grab Brudnoy and hug him. Instead he said to the chief tech, “How can we get the word to Brennart?”

The technician shook his head. “There’s nothing working in polar orbit right now.”

“What about the armored satellite they sent up?”

“Crapped out in the radiation. We don’t know if it even got its message down to Brennart.”

“Can’t you reactivate it?”

“It’s dead.”

“Then we’ve got to send up another one.”

Another head shake, “By the time we could get the last satellite hardened and launched, the radiation levels’ll be getting low enough for Brennart’s people to figure it out for themselves.”

“Dammit,” Greg snarled, “I want a commsat put up!”

Unperturbed, the technician said, “Only the base director can authorize that.” Then he added sardonically, “Sir.”

Greg turned to Brudnoy. “I’ll have to wake Anson up.”

Now Brudnoy shook his head. “I wouldn’t do that, my friend. She would not appreciate it.”

Greg wanted to push past him and storm down the tunnel to kick Anson’s door down. He wanted to tell Brudnoy in
no uncertain terms that he was the next director of this base, not some snivelling technician or farmer afraid of incurring Jinny Anson’s wrath. I’m Joanna Masterson’s son, god-dammit, he wanted to shout. I’ll run this whole corporation one of these days.

But he said nothing. He fought it down and remained quiet. It was a struggle; he felt certain that Brudnoy could see the inner battle raging behind his eyes.

Brudnoy reached out and grasped his arm lightly. “I understand your impatience and your desire to inform your brother of the good news. But the technician is right. Even if we started this instant, by the time we got a commsat over the pole the radiation would already be dying and they would know it for themselves.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, not trusting himself with more than one syllable at a time. “Right.”

“But it’s crazy,” Killifer said.

Brennart’s voice came over the comm console’s speaker. “Sure it’s crazy, Jack,” he said lightly. “But it’s vital to the success of this mission. We’ve got to go.”

“You and Stavenger,” said Killifer. Deems and two of the women were crowded behind him as he sat in the tiny comm cubicle. He could feel their breaths on the back of his neck. And smell them.

“We’ll need your help. Greenberg and Rhee are coming to your shelter to pick up the astronomical equipment and load it onto the hopper.”

“Okay.”

“Jack, I need you to check out the hopper, make certain it’s ready for flight.”

“You want me to suit up and go outside?” Killifer asked. “With a zillion rads out there?”

“Doug’s done some rough calculations on the exposure levels. You should be all right.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“I can’t order you to do it,” Brennart said. “I’m asking you to.”

Killifer grimaced. Yeah, sure, he can’t order me. But if I don’t, I’ll be broken down to tractor maintenance or cleaning toilets.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll suit up.”

“Thanks, Jack!” Brennart’s voice sounded sincerely grateful.

Killifer turned in the little chair and got slowly to his feet. “Rog,” he said to Deems, “you take over here.”

“You’re going outside?” Deems’s normally startled expression had graduated to outright fear.

“That’s right,” Killifer said sourly. “You’re gonna see the fastest friggin’ checkout of a hopper in the history of the solar system.”

The women made room for him to pass and head up the shelter’s central aisle toward the airlock and the spacesuits. Brennart wants to be a big-ass hero and I’ve gotta risk my butt for him. Will I get any of the credit? Shit no. He’s the superstar; I’m down in the noise. Nobody’ll even know I was here.

Him and the Stavenger kid, Killifer fumed as he began to pull on the leggings to his spacesuit. The two of ’em. He tugged on his boots and sealed them closed. Then a new thought struck him.

The two of them. Going up to the mountaintop in the hopper, in all this radiation. What if they don’t make it back?

For an instant he felt a pang of remorse about Brennart. But then he thought, Friggin’ butthead wants to be a hero, what better way is there than to die up there on the top of the mountain?

As Doug lifted the uncrated spectrometer onto the platform of the hopper that stood outside Shelter One, he noticed that the radiation patch on his sleeve had already turned bright yellow.

This is going to be hairy, he thought. We’ll both get enough radiation to put us in the hospital.

The telescope was already on the hopper’s metal platform, a man-tall tube supported on three spindly legs.

A stocky spacesuited figure toted a telemetry transmitter with its solar power panels folded up like the wings of a bird and shoved it onto the hopper’s platform. Doug jumped up onto the metal mesh decking and started lashing down the instruments securely.

“Is that you, Bianca?” he asked the spacesuited figure.

“No, it’s not Bianca.” Killifer’s voice.

Surprised, Doug asked, “What’re you doing out here?”

Clambering up onto the hopper to help with the tie-downs, Killifer’s voice rasped, “I’m out here getting my
cojones
fried because you talked Brennart into being the big hero, that’s why I’m here.”

“I didn’t talk—”

“Fuck you didn’t,” Killifer snapped.

Doug’s usual reaction to hostility was to try to laugh it off, but he knew it wouldn’t work with Killifer.

“Look,” he said while he tied down the instruments, “I checked out your file and I understand why you’re sore at me.”

“You went into my personnel file?”

“I went into everybody’s files, everybody who’s on this expedition.”

“Who the fuck gave you authority for that?”

Doug was tempted to reply that his mother had given him the authority. Instead he answered mildly, “It’s part of my job.”

“The hell it is.”

“I saw the order transferring you to Moonbase and all your appeals.”

Killifer grunted as he lashed down the equipment on the deck.

“The transfer was signed by my mother. Your appeals were all bucked up to her and she rejected them.”

“That’s right.”

“What on Earth did you do to get my mother so pissed at you?” Doug asked. “She practically exiled you up here.”

“None of your friggin’ business.”

“Whatever it was, it wasn’t fair,” Doug said without looking up from the straps he was locking down. “I wish there was some way I could make it up to you.”

Killifer stopped working and straightened up. “Yeah. Sure you do.”

“I mean it,” said Doug.

“Then give me back the eighteen years she stole from me.”

Doug sighed. “I wish I could.”

Killifer jumped down from the deck, floating slowly to the
ground. Doug noticed that there was hardly any loose dust at all for his boots to kick up.

“Okay, then,” Killifer said as he headed back toward the shelter, “there
is
something you can do for me.”

“Name it.”

“Drop dead while you’re up there on that friggin’ mountaintop.”

Safely back inside the buried shelter’s airlock, Killifer slowly wormed out of his spacesuit and then ducked through the open hatch into the main section of the shelter. He saw Greenberg huddling with Martin and Rhee standing worriedly next to the galley, munching on a protein bar. They were both happy to be out of their spacesuits after so many hours.

Once free of the spacesuit, Killifer strode past them swiftly and slipped into the tiny communications cubicle, where Deems still sat at the console. Standing behind Deems, he saw in the main screen the hopper outside, where Brennart—with Doug Stavenger standing beside him—quickly ran down the hopper’s abbreviated checklist.

“Ready for takeoff,” Brennart said, his voice edged with tension.

“Clear for takeoff,” said Deems, his own voice high, quavering.

The little hopper disappeared from the screen in a burst of white, smokey rocket thrust.

Killifer smiled to himself as the aluminum vapor swiftly dissipated in the lunar vacuum. In the leg pouch of his spacesuit was a four-inch square of reinforced cermet, the covering for the hopper’s electronic controls for the liquid oxygen pump.

Bon voyage
, Killifer said silently. He hadn’t rubbed a magic lamp, but he felt certain that his dearest wish was about to come true.

Carlos Quintana stood before the sweeping window of his clifftop hacienda and stared out into the limitless blue of the Pacific. White cumulus clouds were building over the horizon, towering up into thunderheads: so beautiful to look at from a distance, so treacherous to fly through.

He held a heavy cut-crystal glass of exquisite single malt Scotch in his left hand, a slim black cigar in his right.

Cancer of the lung.

The words had sounded like a death sentence at first. Cancer had taken his father, both his uncles, even his older brother. But that had all happened before Carlos had built his fortune. Now he had the money to bring a few specialists to Mexico and let them inject nanomachines into his lung.

The thought disturbed him, almost frightened him. Nanomachines had killed Paul Stavenger and several others on the Moon. Nanomachines were illegal in the United States, in Mexico, in almost every nation on Earth. They didn’t always work the way they were supposed to. That’s what people said. They ran amok and killed Paul, up on the Moon.

He sipped at the whisky, then inhaled a long delicious drag from the cigar. And coughed.

But we’ve used nanomachines on the Moon for years now. They work as designed. Maybe whatever went wrong back then has been fixed now.

Yes, he argued with himself, but the corporation’s nanotech division has closed, except for the work they’re doing at Moonbase. It’s almost impossible to run a nanotech laboratory in the open—on Earth. And now there’s talk in the U.N. about outlawing nanotechnology entirely.

As the sun slowly settled onto the ocean horizon and then dipped below it, Quintana stood alone at the window, watching
but not seeing, alternately sipping and puffing, wondering if he trusted the scientists enough to let them inject invisible machines into his body.

He knew the answer, of course. Despite his fears of nano-machines, cancer of the lung frightened him more.

The fact that he would have to break the law to receive nanotherapy never impinged on his consciousness. Neither did the fact that a few hundred thousand of his fellow Mexicans would die this year of lung cancer because they were too poor to afford nanotherapy.

The jump up to the summit was smoother this time. Standing beside Brennart, Doug realized that the man had entered the distance and altitude from their first flight into the hopper’s minuscule computer. Still, it took good piloting. One rather longish firing of the hopper’s rocket engine and they were soaring up, up the face of the mountain, breaking into brilliant sunlight, riding as smoothly as if they were on an elevator.

Everyone else was safely tucked inside the shelters. On Brennart’s orders, Rhee and Greenberg had been allowed to move into Shelter One with Killifer and Deems. The two women who had been there had grudgingly pulled on their spacesuits and gone off to the fourth shelter, still only partially covered with protective rubble from the regolith.

Doug knew he should be worried about the radiation he was receiving, especially when they broke out of the shadows of the mountains and into the glaring sunlight. Yet somehow that danger seemed unreal compared to the thrill of flying up to the mountaintop again, the excitement of beating Yamagata to the claim for this rich territory.

This is fun! he told himself. We’re doing something nobody else would do.

Besides, the more sober part of his mind added, I made
the rad dose calculations as conservative as I could. The numbers are okay. We’ll make it. We’ll be all right.

Their flimsy craft seemed to hover a hundred meters or so above the mountain’s summit, and Doug marvelled again at Brennart’s finely tuned piloting. Without saying a word, Brennart crabbed the craft sideways slightly and let it down almost exactly where they had landed before.

“That was terrific,” Doug said with genuine awe.

Brennart peered over the console at the ground and the hopper’s broad round feet. “Missed our old landing spot by a good meter,” he muttered unhappily.

Doug laughed.

“All right,” said Brennart, slapping down the, platform railing on his side of the hopper, “we’ve got to be quick now.”

Doug knocked down the railing on his side and they both bent to untie the astronomical instruments. Within a few minutes Doug was setting up the telescope and spectrometer while Brennart, kneeling beside him, unfolded the solar panels of the telemetry unit and began plugging wires from its base to the instruments.

It was clumsy work. Doug felt as if he were wearing thick mittens instead of the most flexible gloves that spacesuit engineers could design. He saw that the radiation patch on his sleeve was a deep orange. Brennart’s too.

“Ready to power up?” Brennart’s voice crackled in his earphones.

Doug swallowed hard and nodded inside his helmet. “Ready.”

The tiny display panels on the instruments lit up and the telescope swung automatically to focus on the Sun. Doug had to duck out of the way of its moving tube.

“Okay,” he said. “They’re working. Let’s drag our butts out of here.”

“Get it on tape,” Brennart said. “Make our claim legal.”

Fumbling with the vidcam in his hurry, Doug quickly panned across the little assembly of instruments with Brennart standing tall and unmistakable in his red-striped spacesuit beside them.

“Okay, got it,” he said, tucking the hand-sized vidcam
back into his thigh pouch. “Now let’s get back to the shelter.”

“Wait one tick,” Brennart said. “I thought I saw something as we were coming in for the landing….” And he loped off toward the edge of the summit in long lunar strides, almost soaring.