Shanghaied to the Moon Page 8

  I hesitate. He’s pissed. Reminding him about that terrible docking wasn’t so smart. He’ll throw me a simulation full of problems. I won’t have a chance.

  But this is a spaceship. Once I learn to fly it, I could go anywhere, not just where he wants …

  I slip inside. My arms are pinned at my sides with only a few inches of free space between my body and the hull. My hands come to rest on two control boxes. Exploring the boxes by feel, my fingers find a joystick on the right one. That’s a handicap, since the scar is feeling so tender today. The other box is covered with the standard three by four numeric keypad. Miniature instruments rim the window and show things like pitch, altitude, fuel, drop speed, and forward speed. About as bare-bones as the PLV capsule, this thing doesn’t even have a heads-up display!

  “Okay, kid.” His voice squeaks through a speaker near my ear. “Simple sequence: boost clear, deorbit burn and free-fall to eight miles, powered descent to five thousand feet, pitchover and go for landing.”

  The sequence seems familiar, but before I can figure out why, he’s explaining the control codes. The numeric codes turn out to be the standard ones used by most of the simulators I’ve played around in. Maybe I have a chance after all.

  With my eyes closed, I review the code sequences, walking my fingertips over the keypad. A sudden rip, clank, and clatter startles me. He’s duct taping the flat screen to the outside of the window. The screen flickers on. It maps the surface of the Moon as if from a great height. The screen is crooked and the simulation is lousy. The shadows are muddy. The surface features, which should have sharp, clear edges, are blurred. Compared to the HOOPscope image, this is like a drawing done with blunt crayons.

  “Boost away,” he calls as the simulation starts running.

  I fire a lateral jet to thrust the squid clear. A splutter of static comes out of the speaker. Guess that’s the sound effects. There’s no sense of motion or thrust. Piece of junk. I have to read the instruments and imagine what’s happening. Makes it hard to feel really involved.

  If this were for real, the squid would be orbiting with the long axis parallel to the surface and the rocket nozzle facing forward. That’s why the screen scrolls the changing moonscape from the bottom. The nose window would be turned toward the surface and I’d be lying on my belly looking down at it. At pitchover, all that changes. Pitchover is a tricky maneuver that rotates the ship from parallel flight into a perpendicular attitude to aim the nozzle straight at the surface. That allows the final hover and braking for landing.

  “Begin DOI,” he says, then adds, “That’s descent orbit initiation, kid.”

  “I know what it is.” My first test … and a chance to impress this guy. Quickly scanning the relevant numbers on the instruments, I calculate the proper burn duration for the descent arc. I lock in my answers and fire the engine. If I’ve got it wrong, I’ll plunge out of orbit.

  A wimpy raspberry warbles from the speaker. The meters show forward speed dropping sharply. The slower orbital speed lets the Moon’s gravity get a stronger grip on the squid. The altimeter registers a rapid descent from my initial orbit fifty miles up. Eight miles above the surface, the readings stabilize at perilune, the lowest point in my new orbit. Perfect work.

  “Okay, kid, power down to five thousand feet.”

  I reignite the engine and throttle up until the drop rate increases to nearly a mile a minute. About three miles up, the display clicks in at the same scale as the ceiling map in my bedroom. Suddenly, the mysterious landscape of craters and shadows transforms. That’s the Sea of Tranquility down there! A square edge comes into view. I squint to sharpen the details. The perimeter fence! Tranquility Base! That’s why the landing sequence sounded familiar. I’m retracing the flight path taken by the Eagle on the first Moon landing!

  Did he pick this simulation at random, or is that where he’s sending me?

  “Five thousand!”

  I’m supposed to do something.

  “Pitchover!”

  Oh, right. I have to rotate the squid and brake for landing.

  “Do it!” A small firecracker goes off next to my ear. The squid jiggles. He’s pounding on the hull! He does it again.

  I flinch and jab a thruster by accident. The nose flips. Stars craters stars craters blink on the monitor as the squid cartwheels out of control. Red lights dance around the window.

  “What the … stabilize!”

  I try, but the rapid black-white flicker of the monitor makes me dizzy.

  “Cut main thrust!” His urgent voice drills into me.

  I do. The cartwheeling stops, but not the spin. I fire a thruster to counteract it. Wrong one. The squid rotates faster. The display strobes into a frenzy of shattered light.

  “The other one!” He whaps the hull. “The other one!”

  He’s so worked up; this is real for him. I lay on the right thruster until the spin stops.

  “Nozzle forward! Hurry!”

  My mistakes have flung me at the surface! The squid is down to a thousand feet before I get the nozzle aimed right.

  “Full throttle!”

  Ram it to one hundred percent. A warning buzzer: low fuel.

  I’ve been here before—out of luck. My hands automatically drop and drift away from the controls in defeat.

  “Lateral! More lateral!”

  He’s still trying to save this landing. Before I can figure out what he means, I’m the newest crater on the Moon.

  A fierce grip closes on my ankle. He yanks me out. It feels like being sucked down a drain. My chin thumps the instrument board, ribs rake over the opening. He lets go. Helpless, I tumble, then crash against the wall. Flailing on the rebound, I snatch a landing strut and hold tight.

  “Why didn’t you lateral? You could’ve made it!” He glares across the engine nozzle. The veins in his neck bulge hugely. His forehead glistens with sweat. Crazy as Mark’s basketball coach. Even during practice, he acts like the world has ended if you miss a foul shot.

  I rub my ribs. “That hurt!”

  “Not as much as hitting the Moon will hurt!”

  “It’s your fault I messed up.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “I lost my concentration when I recognized Tranquility Base. That wouldn’t have happened if you just told me! Everything’s a secret with you.”

  “You’re a sharp one, kid, I’ll hand you that.”

  “So that is where you’re sending me. Why?”

  “Why won’t matter if you can’t land.”

  “I’ll do better next time.”

  “There isn’t a next time!” He lunges for me. I dodge, but he pivots over the landing struts and catches my wrist. He slaps my hand against the cold metal skin.

  “Feel her, kid.” I try to pull my hand away. He holds it there, a commanding look in his eye. “She’ll take you to the Moon and back if you become a part of her. Otherwise, she’ll kill you.”

  As if I wasn’t already in enough danger! My gaze follows down his forearm, where gray hairs stand upright from tensed muscles. The ship’s thin skin dimples under my hand. A crash landing would shred it. The shrapnel would rip open the space suit of anyone inside.

  Decompression. Lungs ripped inside out. Blood boiling.

  My gaze slides, fixes on a thruster. I close my eyes, feel my way back into what was happening, spin out a series of maneuvering options …

  “I guess I should’ve skimmed with a little lateral thrust.”

  “That’s the idea.” He lets go. “Get in. Try again.”

  I flex my right hand. Little zaps from stressed nerves shoot across the scarred palm. “I’d do better with the joystick on the left. Can you change it?”

  “Maybe. Why?”

  “This bothers me sometimes.” I show him my right hand.

  He winces, then looks at his Chronomatrix. “Not enough time now. Next session. What happened anyway?”

  “When I was little …” I stop myself from repeating Dad’s story. Because
if I don’t remember it, how can I be sure it’s true?

  “Actually, I don’t know.”

  12

  MISSION TIME

  T plus 12:08:12

  WE’RE out of time. Come on.”

  He powers down the simulator. We’ve done three more landing attempts … resulting in two crashes and an explosion that blew up the squid and the shuttle when I fired the ascent engine instead of a thruster. Too bad the simulator is such a dud; that would’ve been something to experience in virtual reality!

  I twist out of the squid and stretch. Sure feels good to move! Despite the failures, I’m feeling upbeat about how things went. It’s my typical learning curve with a new ship, but he’s not happy. He’s floating near the hatch of the canister wearing a sour expression. The only thing he said to me after each simulation was “try again.”

  Would’ve been great if things had clicked right away—surprise him for a change. But so what? I don’t need to impress him. I got the basics down. I could fly away in the squid if my plan to find the radio and call for help doesn’t work out.

  I launch myself toward that end of the canister, doing somersaults as I go. Reaching the wall, I make like a swimmer about to turn a lap, but instead of pushing off, I let my knees absorb the momentum. I stick there like Spider-Man, four feet from the hatch. He stares at me, a look of surprise mingled with … relief?

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Just didn’t know if you had that kind of spacial sense in you or not. I’m glad to see you do.” He shuts off the lights in the canister and ducks into the tunnel.

  I follow him, closing the hatch behind me.

  He soars across mid-deck and stops at a control panel near the ladder. He shuts off the lights in mid-deck, then glides through the hatch into the glow from flight deck. I’m right behind him.

  Even on flight deck, he’s got half the lights shut off. When I settle into my seat, I notice a few consoles are dark, too. One of them is the radio. It’s on his side of the cockpit. I’d practically have to crawl into his lap to get to it.

  “What’s with the lights?”

  “Fuel cell failed. Have to conserve power.” He pulls a clipboard off its Velcro wall hanger.

  The fuel cells make electricity by combining hydrogen and oxygen gas. The “waste” is pure water. That’s what we drink from the dispenser and why it tastes so clean even in this tub.

  “How many are left?”

  “Four.”

  No big deal then. He’s just being cautious, since a couple are usually spares. We go back to worrying about our real problem. Like two anxious parents after a feeding, we wait for the NavComp to execute the next maneuver—come on, baby, burp.

  Beep. The prompt alerts us to pay attention.

  “There she goes.” He checks the sequence off on his printout.

  “Burp.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Get serious, kid. It’s your watch.” He hands me the clipboard, draws his finger down the columns of the mission profile. “Time here. Maneuver sequence here. Verify on monitor two. Check off here.”

  I’m glad he thinks I’m goofing off. Mission time is 12:18:16. The first maneuver I have to verify will happen in fifteen minutes. The next one is an hour after that. That gap ought to give me enough time to use the radio. Unless he isn’t asleep by then.

  “You going to sleep now?”

  “Cocktail hour first.” He reaches for the jacket stuffed between the armrest and the bulkhead. Passed out would be even better than asleep. But the bottle is only half-full. I doubt that’s enough to do it. He takes a sip, then looks at the clock. Again and again, like one of those water-filled bobbing ducks.

  “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a sock?”

  “I’m fine right here, thanks.”

  He’s going to stay up, make sure I get the first check right. What am I going to do for the next fifteen minutes—watch him drink? I tap the Navcomp with the edge of the clipboard. “Any games in this thing?”

  “Solitaire.”

  “That’s more boring than being bored!”

  “You shouldn’t be playing games anyway. You should be training.”

  “Hey, I’m willing. It’s not my fault I have to babysit this piece of junk.”

  “True enough. I don’t have any training routines on the system here. I’ll transfer some from the squid later. You’re not as good as I expected.”

  I shrug. “I always crash a lot.”

  “Because you fly it like a computer.”

  “That’s all I’ve ever flown! Dad won’t—”

  “You told me.” His eyes go back to the clock.

  “Why do you keep doing that? It’ll beep when it’s time.”

  “I’m not waiting for the maneuver.” He takes a big pull on the straw. “It’s a special day for me, too.”

  “It’s your birthday?!”

  He shakes his head. “An anniversary coming up in a minute.”

  “You’re married?”

  “Not that kind.”

  “What kind, then?”

  “Sorry, kid, that’s one of those things I’ve gotta keep locked in a box.” He drains the bottle with a bubbly slurp, crushing it to get the last drop. He digs out another one and quickly sucks half of it down.

  “This isn’t exactly a great day for me, either.” Going to the Moon ought to be the best birthday present ever.

  “Keep your mind on your job, kid. It’ll help.”

  Beep.

  I verify the maneuver and check it off. Next one in an hour.

  “She’s all yours now.” He slips the bottle into a holder, then reaches for a pair of blackout eyeshades clipped to the ceiling. “Wake me in four hours.”

  “Is that enough?” I don’t want him sleep deprived.

  “Don’t need much sleep these days. A perk of old age.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Hundred twenty-one Earth years. Seventy-six the way spacers figure it.”

  “That’s a big difference.” He’s either traveled super fast, so that relativity effects slowed time, or been out on long, slow trips in cryogenic suspension. Maybe both.

  “Been a spacer a long time, kid. Long, long time.” He pauses a moment, thinking something over. “After that trip to Venus, you couldn’t drag me back to Earth with a black hole.”

  “Hey, Val Thorsten said that in Venus: Inferno Below the Clouds.”

  “I know. They stuck to the truth in the early ones.”

  “What do you mean? The 3-Vids are docudramas. They’re all true.”

  “Ah, the innocence of babes …” He shakes his head. “You might find some bits of real history in them, if you look hard enough. But I never chased pirates. Never with Tony. Never with Bob. Never after the Jupiter disaster.”

  Oh great! Now he thinks he’s Val Thorsten!

  He brings the bottle to his lips.

  A deadbeat like him, borrowing Val’s glory. I’m insulted on Val’s behalf. Should I challenge him, or just play along? The more he talks, the more he drinks.

  I want him drunk. “So what happened on the way to Jupiter?”

  He broods over the straw. His mouth draws into a thin, hard line. Another long pull. “Damned Photrino drive. Trouble from the first. Old Man Lance saved a few nickels and Tony … Tony paid full price.”

  His voice softens, apologetic. Tony is Val’s chief engineer, and his cheerful face comes clearly to mind from Asteroid Run. I don’t remember Old Man Lance in Jupiter Turnabout, but the new Photrino drive was skittish. It conked out during the most critical maneuver. That left Val, his crew, and the two hundred colonists with no hope of ever reaching Jupiter.

  “No hope of Jupiter. Just one chance to get home. Tony had to fix …”

  I can see every detail of the scene where Val talks with Tony about trying a very tricky, very dangerous boomerang maneuver. The drive had to work perfectly. But the fusion bottle collapsed. Tony had to go into the
fusion chamber even though the damper fields were unstable.

  This guy says the 3-Vid is a fake, but he’s describing it exactly like it happened. A chill goes down my spine. Could he really be …

  No. He’s a fan, like me. He’s just retelling the 3-Vid and casting himself as Val Thorsten. I do it all the time myself.

  He comes to the part where there are just two repairs left. The damper fields start to fail. Val stands ready to pull Tony out—

  “… but nobody could get him out …”

  “No! That’s not true!”

  “Damn it, kid, who’re you going to believe?” His hand slams my chest and twists up a fistful of shirt. He pulls me half out of my seat and over the center console that separates us. Our noses almost touch. His angry eyes are the pale blue of pond ice. His breath smells explosive. “Tony died in there!”

  “That’s crazy, I just saw him in Asteroid Run.”

  “Lies!” He shoves me away. My shoulder slams the bulkhead. I stiff-arm the center console to stop the rebound, then settle sideways in the seat, back hunched against the hull, knees drawn up against my chest for protection.

  Maybe it was a mistake, wanting him drunk. No. It’s working. He’s sucking on the bottle again.

  I just have to be more careful how I react. The idea of Tony dead caught me by surprise, that’s all. I just blurted out what I thought. But he gets violent as well as crazy. My karate won’t be much good here. So many of the moves depend on gravity.

  Some of the whiskey beads at the corner of his mouth and spills into the air. He swipes at his wet lips, clumsy.

  He really is a sad old bum.

  Slowly, his finger comes toward my forehead. I pull back. The finger stops. “They’re alive in that skull of yours, aren’t they? Tony. Bob. And me, I’m young …”

  He draws his hand away. Jabs his own forehead. The fingernail leaves a deep white crescent in the wrinkled skin. “But the truth is in here.”

  The hand moves to open a shutter, revealing the frozen lightning brilliance of a million stars.

  “Lot of debris. Volunteers?”

  I flinch at the snap in his voice, more order than request. I know this scene from Jupiter Turnabout by heart: The motors on the main communication antenna have jammed. Now that Tony’s fixed the drive, the antenna needs to be freed up to receive vital course data from Earth. But the disaster surrounded the ship with dangerous debris. Bob Winston, a pilot almost as good as Val and one of my favorite crewmembers, volunteers to go out.