Shanghaied to the Moon (3 page)

“Something to dream about, anyway.”

“You sound like my dad. I don't want to dream. I want to do it!”

“I can make that happen for you.” He looks straight at me. His eyes are the pale blue of a morning sky. The irises are as dark as space.

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 up 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.”

“Don't call me that!”

“Touchy.” Mark shrugs off his pack and drops it. “Hey, is that the RugBot?”

“Yeah.” Pieces of it and tools and the rest of my science project are spread all around me on the carpet.

“The bread maker, too?!”

“Shhh.” I'm trying to pull the stair-climbing gear from the RugBot. It's perfect for the crank of my mechanoid jack-in-the-box creation. But the gear is in a position where I have to use my right hand to hold the pliers. The scar across my palm starts cramping just as I get a grip on the gear. I lose my hold. The pliers drop down into the RugBot's housing.

“Shoot.” I shake the stiffness out of my hand. I don't care about the ugly scar, but I worry there might be some lingering nerve damage that'll make piloting hard. I don't even remember burning it—Dad says it happened when I was little, an accident with a laser in his lab—but it sure seems the damage should have healed completely by now.

The old spacer's voice comes into my head.
They can make you forget.

I wish I could forget he ever said that! The alcohol had a good grip on him by then. I bet it's just spacer superstition. I was too
young
to remember, that's all.

Ignoring the ache and the spacer's nonsense, I snag the pliers and take another stab at the gear.

Mark squats at the edge of the construction zone. “What
are
you doing?”

“Making an electrodigital jack-in-the-box. Watch.” I set the bread maker timer for five seconds and press
start.
The motor whirs and the little shaft waiting for a crank spins. Zero. The top flies open. Four feet of slinky toy leaps for the ceiling. Mark falls back onto his rump. “Neat, huh?”

“Where's Jack? And will it ever make bread again?”

“I'm gonna put a rocket on it.”

“What else?” Mark rolls his eyes.

I shove the RugBot under his nose. “Can
you
see a lock pin in there?”

“Give it a rest.” He stands up. Unzips his Hawk's team jacket halfway. “Look what came in the mail.”

He fishes out a flat packet about the size of a notebook. It's wrapped in thermax. Only things from space come in thermax.

I make for it like a gravitron missile. “What is it?”

“Don't know.” Mark holds it up out of reach. “Might be a birthday cake, with ice cream—freeze-dried, for little spacemen!”

He thumps me on the head, full of his own joke. I jump. Grab for it. But can't win against his height. “Give it to me, monkey arms!”

“Don't get sore. Here.” One great thing about Mark—he's got pimples, a girlfriend, and smelly sweat socks, but he's not a jerk about important stuff.

“It's from Dad!” The package is flexible and lightweight. I turn it over and over. No rattles. No sloshes.

“Thermax blocks X-ray vision,” Mark says.

I peel open the thermax, revealing black gift wrap, dotted with silver Milky Way spirals. There's a thumb-sized bump in the middle. A 3-Vid. I rip off the paper. “Oh wow! Solar Time Warp! This isn't due out until next month. How'd Dad get a copy?”

“Note on the back.”

I turn it over.

An early present, Stewart!

Waiting for the Moon run on Olympus Space Station, I met a pilot bringing a shipment of these in from the asteroid belt. I bribed him
MUCHO
to give me a copy. You'll be the first kid on Earth to see Val Thorsten's latest adventure!

Had quite a talk with this pilot. Believe me, you're better off with the reality of a six-month ore run to Jupiter.