Shanghaied to the Moon (10 page)

I thrust off, correct my course with a little touch on the air lock hatch, and glide through the middle chamber into the opposite tunnel. But he's still half in the tunnel. I make a hasty grab at a handhold and jerk to a stop face-to-face with the soles of his shoes. He's changed his street shoes for Velcro booties. I need to do that, then I could get a solid grip on the carpeted walls as easily as he does.

I hear the buzz and snap of lights coming on, then he floats into the canister, unblocking the tunnel. Sweet air flows over me. Through the round portal I see a hammock of fine mesh shock webbing slung the length of the canister. The webbing bulges in the middle, hiding something the size of a refrigerator.

The canister itself is a long, narrow cylinder about the size of a classroom. Two light strips line the sides. Attached to the curving wall near the middle is a control console and, next to it, an anchor boom.

I slip in and breathe deep. Sweet! I reach to close the hatch, but he grabs the handle, stopping me.

“Never seal all personnel on the wrong side of an air lock, kid. Something happens, jams the hatch, you're trapped away from the controls.”

“I didn't know.”

“Now you do.”

He glides to the control console opposite the bulge in the shock webbing, then swivels the anchor boom out. Parting the web, he attaches the boom to whatever's inside. Coming back to the forward wall, he unhooks the end of the webbing, then launches himself to the far side. As he flies past the thing, he strips off the webbing with a bullfighter's flourish to unveil a tiny ship. It looks like a turkey baster with tentacles.

“A squid! I can't believe it. Where do you
find
this stuff?”

“Flea markets.”

“Yeah, right, and this was owned by a little old lady who only flew it to Mars once a year.”

“She's all yours now, kid. Happy birthday!”

“You didn't get that for me! You didn't even
know
me until yesterday.”

“True. But I had someone
like
you in mind. Loosen up. Check her out. Santa never left you anything like this little beauty.”

“It's just a robot. What am I supposed to do with it?”

“Not anymore. Take a closer look.”

I'm almost afraid to, but I push off, angling out over the squid. The ascent stage is an elongated teardrop shape. The descent stage bulges around a big rocket nozzle and has long, thin landing struts sweeping backward like tentacles, giving these ships their nicknames—squids. Officially, they were known as AMDs—automated mining drones—and were used for sampling asteroids in the belt.

This one's been modified. There's a window near the nose. The robotic drilling arm is gone, replaced by two tubes like you might use to send a big poster through the mail. A large oval opening has been cut into the side. I catch the rim of it with my foot, flip, and poke my head inside. It looks like a miniature cockpit. He's turned this into a lunar lander! It's rigged to fly, with just enough empty space for a midget or one short kid …

I pull my head out quick. “You want
me
to land this on the Moon?”

“You're the backup. I'll fly her down on remote.”

“And hit the Moon as hard as we hit the dock? No way!”

“Still think you're better than me?” He's floating near the simulation control console, arms and legs crossed like a Buddha. His ponytail sticks straight out from his head, like a stub of whisk broom. “Get in.”

He yanks a flat screen monitor from the console and drifts toward the squid trailing control cables like the tail of a kite.

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.