Shanghaied to the Moon Page 2
Angling away from the bench, I put about ten feet between myself and the guy. An easy scissors-kick vault puts me over the guardrail in front of the fence. I lean against the wire mesh. The metal bites cold where it touches my face. Rays of the late afternoon sun seep through my jacket, warming my back.
The Old Spaceport spreads out eastward over the salt marshes to the ocean. Ships aren’t launched from here anymore. It’s a museum. When I want action, I go to the New Canaveral Spaceport further up the coast. Even from here, I can see some of the taller gantries and watch a few ships come and go. Dad’s rocket left from there two nights ago—an Alldrives Eniex 70. It can make the Moon run in four hours; nothing but the best for employees of Alldrives Space Systems.
That’s who Val Thorsten works for. Who I want to work for. They run the asteroid mines and the Jupiter colonies and eighty percent of the transports. They build the fastest ships and win the exploration contracts. That’s where I want to be, on the edge, piloting that kind of ship into unknown space. Ships like the ones displayed here at the Old Spaceport.
They were all unique in their day—firsts of a kind. Each one needed a special pilot. Apollo vehicles are over to the right. Off to the left is a Jupiter Floater; Mom was the test pilot for the prototype. In the center, the Lance Ramjet perches on its pedestal, angled toward the stars. The hull glints orange in the sunlight. It might have glowed like that when Val Thorsten skimmed it through the clouds of Venus.
Venus: Inferno Below the Clouds is my favorite of his 3-Vid adventures. It was Val’s first mission for Alldrives; a test to see if this young hotshot fresh out of the academy really had what it took to become a permanent member of their team.
The best part is when the Lance Ramjet is halfway through the Venusian atmosphere. The alarms start singing. The cloud density is above spec. The engines are in danger of flaming out. Abort! But it’s too late. Val’s plunging toward the lava-hot surface, out of control, with only a few minutes to find a way to refire the engines or … well, I wouldn’t have a pocket full of his other adventures if he hadn’t succeeded.
That Lance Ramjet is no replica. Val pulled it out. Val Thorsten always pulls it out.
“Hey!” A voice. Close. “You a kid or a midget?”
“Heeii-yaa!” I spin around, crouch into Position One, on my toes, jigging, ready for anything.
The man from the bench leans on the guardrail a few feet from me. He’s bent so far over I see more of the top of his balding head than his face. A fringe of silver hair above his ears is pulled back into a knobby ponytail. Looks like the frayed end of a rope.
“Nice reflexes.” He straightens up, winces, and grabs at the small of his back. “Damn Mother Earth. No place for a spacer.”
A spacer? He wears his stub of a ponytail like a pilot. And that is a flight jacket. Frayed bits of thread faintly outline less grimy patches on the sleeve and chest where the insignias used to be. The zipper is broken open over his big belly. He doesn’t look like a real pilot to me.
“Drop the ninja act.” His teeth flash white and even as he speaks. “I’m the guy you came to see.”
What’s he talking about? I deepen my crouch. He stares at me staring at him. His face is broad-featured. His mouth cuts a cheerless line across it.
“Pad 12?” He frowns. Rubs at the silver stubble on his jaw. “You are here about my ad, aren’t you?”
“Ad? What ad?”
Disappointment remolds his face. He turns his back to me and, with a groan, settles his butt on the rail. He sure is hurting. They’ve mostly got the bone problem solved today, but a lot of people who went to space a few decades ago have serious troubles. Normal gravity can be torture.
Most old spacers never come back to Earth, not without a really good reason. He’s probably a nutter. Just some homeless guy with bad arthritis who thinks he’s a spacer.
“Um … mister?”
“You still here?” His head half turns my way.
“Yeah.”
“Come round where I can see you.”
I one-step over the guardrail, but keep my distance, just to be safe, though I doubt he has any moves I couldn’t handle. I have three years of karate under my belt.
He rests his hands on his knees. Short breaths whisper through his parted lips. He runs his tongue over their cracked dryness. “Well?”
“You got a place? I mean, you don’t sleep on that bench all night, do you?”
“So what if I do?” He juts his chin at me.
“Well, maybe I could help. Rent you a cubby—”
“I’ve got a berth. That’s not my problem.” He reaches into the right pocket and pulls out a small squeeze bottle—the kind they use in zero-g. The contents glow amber in the sun. He pops the straw in his mouth, squirts. The sharp smell of alcohol comes to my nose on the breeze.
“So what is your problem?” I ask, though I’m probably looking at it in that bottle.
“Ever been to space, kid?”
“Have you?” Why should I give a straight answer if he doesn’t?
He draws a tight circle in the air with the bottle. “Done a few loops.”
“That jacket looks Salvation Army to me.”
“Because of this?” He pulls at a few threads. “Did that myself.”
“Why?”
“That’s a long story, and I’m in no mood to tell it.” He reaches deep into the left pocket, looks surprised to find something in there. He brings out a fistful of insignias. “Want ’em?”
He opens his hand. I snag the biggest one as the rest flutter to the ground. My fingers trace rich textured weaving that forms the letters TE. Never heard of an outfit with those call letters.
“What’s TE?” I pick up the rest. Tuck them in my pocket.
“Before your time, kid.” He takes another drink, then, twisting carefully around, points with the bottle. “You know that ship? In the center?”
“Sure! That’s the Lance Ramjet. I just saw the remake of Venus: Inferno Below the Clouds. Have you seen it?”
“Yeah. The original.”
“You have to see the remake. They really improved the sense-o-rama. Your teeth chatter when the Lance Ramjet hits the clouds!”
“Chatter?” He makes a disgusted face. “That’s nothing, kid. Those engines. Kick your butt between your eyeballs.”
“Someday I’ll feel that. Someday, I’m going to Pluto.”
“Pluto, huh? No one’s dared since the Valadium Thruster failed.”
“I’m not afraid to try again … only … I might never get the chance. I can’t do AstroNav.”
“Bigger problem, kid. No ship.”
“Someone could build another Valadium Thruster. I’d take it out there.”
“Why would you want to do that? She … didn’t make it.” He tips the bottle back, squeezes long and hard.
“I’ve studied the design. Got some ideas of what might have gone wrong.”
He’s about to take another drink. Stops himself. “Gimme a for instance.”
Is he baiting me? The other kids love to get me talking about the Valadium Thruster, then poke fun at me for caring so much about a ship that fell into the sun. But he’s waiting with an interested look.
“My best guess: Something went wrong with the impulsor engines during the Whip maneuver. Maybe …” He’ll laugh now, if he’s going to. “Maybe even caused a transdimensional shift.”
“Interesting.” He rotates the bottle in his palm. For a few long moments, he seems to be hypnotized by the way the sunlight winks off the faceted surface. “And if that’s really what went wrong, you could fix it?”
“With the right team, yeah. If only Val hadn’t lost it in …” It’s too painful to say out loud. The image from the 3-Vid Pluto: A Star too Far comes harshly into my mind. The beautiful Valadium Thruster melting to lava as it plunges toward the sun.
“Something to dream about, anyway.”
“You sound like my dad. I don’t want to dream. I want to do it!”
I don’t look away. My determination is mirrored in that darkness. “How?”
“How tall are you?”
“Huh?”
“Tall, you know, feet, inches.”
This guy changes the subject as often as the Counselor.
“Why do you want to know that?”
“To qualify.” He looks away, suddenly sounding indifferent. “No point in telling you any more if you don’t.”
Whatever this guy wants, it isn’t going to be me. I’m always too short. But I make myself answer. “I’m four three and nine sixteenths.”
He breathes in deep, lets it go slow. His head nods the slightest bit down, then up. “Good enough.”
“For what?”
“Got a little trip to the Moon in the works. Need a cabin boy,” he says, still not looking at me. “Have you been to space? You never said.”
Seems the qualifying tests aren’t over. This’ll be the end. “No, but I’ve seen hundreds of 3-Vids. I’ve done an entire Apollo Moon mission in the simulator. The eight-hour version.”
“Woo-eee!” He hoots. “Eight hours in a ground can and we are going to Pluto!”
“I wanted to do the longer version, but I’m too young!”
“Cool your jets, kid. No offense. Just a bit tame by my standards, that’s all. Did you pilot the LEM?”
Guessing the next question, I nod reluctantly. I always do the toughest simulation, the actual flight path of the first Moon landing. Even the legendary Neil Armstrong had trouble when he had to go manual with less than a minute of fuel left.
“How’d the landing go?”
I’m tempted to lie, to claim some of Armstrong’s glory for myself, but the truth has gotten me this far. “Crashed.”
“Honest. I like that.”
He pushes up the cuff of his jacket, exposing a Chronomatrix. It’s a watch/supercomputer combo popular with pilots—about fifty years ago! You can order a replica from the Val Thorsten fan club. I never wear mine except for play. It’s not network compatible like the OmniLink on my wrist.
He flicks a function button with his little finger. “Damn, missed the window. Come back tomorrow. An hour earlier.”
“Window? Launch window?”
“Bingo. Pad 12, remember?” He gestures toward the coast. I can just make out the silhouette of the gantry at Pad 12. It looks like a dead pine tree against the hazy horizon. The rocket isn’t visible from here, but I’ve explored all the derelicts, so I know it’s an ancient Personal Launch Vehicle. PLVs are designed to do one thing—get people into orbit and docked to a spaceship or space station. No frills.
Suddenly, all the excitement building in me turns sour. I feel like a fool for taking this crazy old bum seriously.
“Thanks for nothing, mister. That old thing can’t fly.”
“It can now,” he says. “I overhauled the booster with a NitriLox regenerator.”
I take another long look at the PLV. A NitriLox regen would do it. I look at him tilting back the bottle again. He may be a drunk with an old watch, but that’s cutting-edge tech. How’d he get his hands on it?
“So what do you say, kid? Good opportunity to learn a little AstroNav …” His sloppy grin turns into a kind of leer and alarm bells start going off in my head, like when a simulation is going bad. Never take candy from a stranger!
“You didn’t plan this trip to teach me AstroNav. What’s the mission? And what’s being short got to do with it?”
“The mission …” He glances around, nervous, worried about the hidden mikes and cameras of TIA. The government’s Total Information Awareness security system would certainly keep an eye on a public space like this. It would notice a guy like him for sure. He probably stole that regenerator.
He takes a quick sip. Licks his lips. “I left a piece of my life up there, kid. I need your help to get it back.”
I can’t keep from glancing at the bottle.
“Don’t worry about this. Just medicine for my bones.”
“Nobody has to drink.”
“By Jupiter, I got me a Boy Scout!”
“I’m not a Boy Scout. We learned in school. The Counselors can help you with that kind of problem.”
“Oh sure, kid. Counselors can make you forget. But some pain—you hang on to it!” He snatches a fistful of air. “Fruit of your life.”
“Make you forget?”
“Bitter fruit.” He takes a swig, then swipes a sleeve across his mouth.
“What do you mean, they can make you forget?”
“Bit of advice, kid. You want to be the best, better than Vaaaaal Thorsten?!” He rolls out the name like a trumpet fanfare went along with it. “Huh? Do you?”
“More than anything.”
“The instincts. The reflexes. Nobody knows how the old noodle”—he taps his temple—“puts it all together. So stay away from Counselors. Never let them mess with your head.”
“Stay away? But I have to see them. I get … I need … I mean, I have bad dreams.”
“Not my problem. Just be here tomorrow.” He dismisses me with a sweep of the bottle. “Go on, beat it. Got some counseling of my own to do.”
3
MISSION TIME
T minus 12:37:03
CABIN BOY NEEDED for Moon mission. Must be under 4’5” tall. Various duties. AstroNav lessons. Free passage to the Moon. Report in person to Pad 12, Old Spaceport, New Canaveral, FL. (Midgets also considered.)
This is the one and only hit the computer finds. It’s in Spacefarer Magazine, the official aerospace journal of record. The old spacer wasn’t pulling my leg.
First time being short has won me any prizes.
I look up at the gigantic glow-in-the-dark Moon map pasted to the ceiling over my bed. Models of all Val Thorsten’s ships hang around the big circle. A tap on the Lance Ramjet sets it whirling on its wire. It smacks a long, sweeping heat radiator of the Valadium Thruster. I quickly steady the ships. Can’t let the VT get scratched.
Flopping onto the bed, I stare up at Copernicus Crater. Wouldn’t it just blow Dad’s mind if I showed up on the Moon? He’d have to sign my application then or I’d threaten never to come back. Maybe I’d never come back anyway.
What kind of ship might the old spacer have parked in orbit? A Comet Catcher? A Neutron Slider?
Right. And his berth is at the Ritz!
Of course, there are stories of rich people who pretend to be poor. Eccentrics. He must have some money if he could afford a NitriLox regenerator for that antique PLV, unless he really did steal it … Could he be a criminal? I don’t know anything about him. The ad doesn’t even give his name, or any way to contact him.
I twist onto my stomach. My jacket wraps tight. Wiggling it loose, I reach into the pocket for those insignias. TE. Probably some rinky-dink shipping line running ore from the colonies. Who else would hire a bum like him?
But pilot’s wings are pilot’s wings …
No. It’s hopeless. I’m never going on a Moon mission with that old spacer. Pilots don’t drink. Pilots can’t be crippled, either. I’ll never find out why the cabin boy has to be short. Never learn more about the Counselors.
Still in search mode, the computer screen glows patiently from across the room. That can’t be true, what he said about them being able to make you forget. The booze must have fogged his brain.
But you know, I’ve never searched “Counselor” before.
I glance at my open bedroom door. Listen. Mark’s not home yet. With a push off the bed, I go close the door. Rest my back against it. Hesitate, suddenly nerved up. Like I’m about to do something wrong. Why should I feel guilty about wanting to search that topic?
My mouth is dry. I work my tongue around to get up a little spit, loosen the words. “Search Counselor.”
Entries fill the screen as I walk back toward the desk. I’ve picked u
p enough of the jargon after six years of sessions to recognize a promising listing: TREATMENT OPTIONS.
Sweat tingles across my forehead. Maybe because I haven’t even taken my jacket off yet. I shrug out of it, touch the entry. Another big, long list.
One stands out: MNEMONIC SUPPRESSION.
Mnemonic. I remember that word from helping Mark with some artificial intelligence programming. It’s Greek. Means something like memory tricks, things like “i before e except after c.”
I reach for the screen, but a hunger pang stops me. Should’ve had a snack. Can’t stop for a snack now. Reach again, but my stomach clenches once more. It’s not hunger. More like how my insides shrink watching the NewsVid, just before the image of the crashing shuttle appears.
Weird.
I force my whole body to bow toward the computer until my outstretched finger touches the screen over MNEMONIC SUPPRESSION.
THIS PAGE CANNOT BE DISPLAYED
YOUR SOFTWARE NEEDS UPDATING
Now that’s really weird. Mark never lets our software get out of date. I try a different URL, hoping to find a cross-link back to mnemonic suppression. The few links that I do find all lead back to the same dead end. Just my luck today. A chance to go to the Moon with a drunk. And no answers about the Counselor the first time I ever think to look.
At least I don’t feel sick anymore. It must have just been a hunger pang, like I thought. Better get a snack and tackle that science project.
Before heading for the kitchen, I reach under the bed and haul out my Val Thorsten Jupiter Mission footlocker. Open it. Sitting on top is a Pilot Achievement Award folder with an official fan club certificate and replica medal inside. There’s a blank space for your name on the certificate. Mine’s still blank. I’ve vowed not to write my name in until I can do AstroNav.
Scooping up the old spacer’s insignias from the bed, I drop them in and slam down the lid. Bum that he is, he’s light-years ahead of me. Without AstroNav, nobody would even hire me to run ore.
By the time Mark gets home, I’m well into my science project. He sails through the front door and into the living room pushing waves of cheeriness. He must have had a good date. Things are sure going fine for him with Dad gone. “Hey, hi, Stub.”