Shanghaied to the Moon (7 page)

So is his flying!

Connecting up with that dock ought to be a routine maneuver. But he's in trouble. The thrusters are firing so often the capsule sounds like a steam engine at full throttle. He's breathing almost as fast. The sharp, sour odor of sweat fills the tiny space. His eyes shift from the docking radar to the view port. He jerks the joystick.

Bad move. Causes us to close in way too fast. The FlightComp flashes a warning. I knew it would. I've come to this point in simulations dozens of times—no bull's-eye for us. He has to pull out and try again.

But he doesn't.

The straps of my harness dig deep on impact. The air rings. The pod bounces off the dock. Sunshine flares inside for a moment. Then darkness. Tumbling. Falling out of orbit. We'll burn up!

“Do something!”

Sun again, lighting up his face. He's panicked. Locked up tight. I grab for a thruster.

“
NO!
” He smacks my hand away, connecting with the same knuckles I banged while watching Asteroid Run. It hurts! But at least I snapped him out of it.

He taps the keypad. Thrusters start popping off. The tumbling stops. He works the controls slowly, timidly, double-checking each move before triggering a thruster. Tense minutes pass this way until there's a solid thunk. The lock pins fire into place. He releases the joystick with a great blast of breath, followed by a ragged drag of air to refill his lungs. He sweeps the sheen of sweat from his forehead. Droplets float all around us.

“That was terrible! Even
I
can dock better than that!”

Did he hear me?

He coaxes a squeeze bottle out of a hip pocket, flips open the top, and pulls out the straw. His hands shake so badly, he almost can't get the straw between his lips. He sucks, grimacing like a nervous dog.

I must've been crazy, climbing into a rocket with him.

This is the Counselor's fault. What was it trying to do to me? When the screen strobed, I felt as if a leash jerked me up short. Like it was trying to control my brain. I
had
to escape.

But I don't have to stick with this guy. I can't. His flying's not going to improve the more he drinks.

He smacks his lips. The color is back in his face. The wide-open panic fades from his eyes. “You think you're better than me, huh, kid?”

“Yeah.”

“That thruster”—he points the squeeze bottle at the one I almost fired—“would have blasted us straight out of orbit. So keep your hands off the controls.”

“You should, too!”

He freezes for a second, then twists away, reaching to undo his harness buckle. The hatch cracks open with a gasp. The matching hatch on the docking ring opens. Sour air farts into the capsule.

With the flick of a finger against a panel edge, he sets his bulk in motion. He floats out of the seat and rotates in one fluid movement. He hooks the collar of his jacket, then corkscrews through the hatch in a headfirst glide into the air lock chamber.

He flows into the right-angle turn toward the lower deck of the crew section. He sure moves with a lot less trouble than on Earth—almost graceful. Can't say like a dolphin, not the way he looks, more like one of those manatees.

I hear a hatch clatter. Then another. Then his voice. “Bring that duffel when you come, kid.”

My eyes fix on the joystick. It glistens, still moist with his sweat.

I can fly this thing. Just couldn't think very well with it tumbling before. I'll go to Olympus Space Station. Wait for Dad there. Safe from Counselors. Safe from this guy's flying.

I undo my harness so I can reach the hatch. I haul on the dock hatch first, but I'm the one who moves instead. My head slams into the rivets around the rim. What am I, the Universe's punching bag all of a sudden?

My own fault this time, though. You've got to do things different in zero-g. I hook my foot in a harness strap, pull again. The hatch swings closed.

I settle into the pilot's seat. Buckle up. Look at the controls. They're a kaleidoscope of confused colors. In simulators, there's a mission profile already in the FlightComp. I'm starting from scratch.

Calm down. Look for function blocks.

Okay, there's the FlightComp. I key in for undocking. A few panels come to life.

Now what?

The ship-to-ship intercom buzzes. “Cuttin' out?”

I jump, but he can't see that. “Thought I might.”

Talking tough helps me feel tougher.

“Checked the thruster reserves yet?”

It takes a few seconds of searching even to
find
the fuel gauges. Inside the three small, round dials, the neon red needles rest hard to the left—empty!

His lousy flying used up all the fuel! Sweat blooms on my face. If I cut loose without fuel, the PLV would fall out of orbit. This tiny capsule isn't built to withstand reentry. I would've burned up.

Out the window, beyond the razor-straight edge of the shuttle's tail, beyond the geometrically perfect cone of the engine nozzles, the ragged west coast of Africa is a long, long way down.

“Toggle back into standby, kid. And don't forget the duffel.”

7

MISSION TIME

T plus 00:31:07

THE tunnel leading from the docking ring to the airlock chamber is so narrow even
I
can't stand straight in it. Pushing the duffel through the hatch, I drop after it feetfirst. Grabbing a handhold, I stop inside the tunnel to close the capsule hatch, then the hatch on the docking ring. I drift into the airlock chamber, a cylinder twice as roomy as the capsule and reeking of mothballs.

The smell comes from a space suit lashed to the curving wall. Bulky, old style, and small. For someone under four feet five inches. A dinosaur compared to the suit Dad had, it's probably been in storage for the last fifty years, like everything else about the old spacer.

Why isn't there one for him? That's not safe, especially in a tub as old as this one. Leaks happen.

Anchoring my foot in a wall strap, I pull the airlock hatch into the docking tunnel closed. Two other narrow tunnels lead from the air lock, each a little longer than I am tall but both too narrow to stand up in. One goes into the shuttle. The other, sealed off by a closed hatch, connects to the enormous canister in the cargo bay. Through the air lock's hatch window, the bright blue handle of the canister's hatch catches my eye. I'm tempted to take a peek. Maybe it's a habitat or science module. Maybe I could find out what this mission is about. But then again, it could be full of mission support equipment in an airless can. Too risky.

Turning away from temptation, I snag the strap on the duffel and kick off into the tunnel leading to the crew section of the shuttle. There's a little backward tug as the duffel strap goes taut, then the bag sails into middeck with me. I'm closing fast on a wall covered with broken lockers. With no way to stop! I smack the wall, rebound into the oncoming duffel, and stop tangled with it in midair.

Action and reaction. I'm a living physics experiment!

One of those uncontrollable moronic grins takes over my face. Pretty quick, though, the look of the place sobers me up.

Middeck is about fourteen feet wide, ten long fore to aft, and eight tall deck to ceiling. The shower, toilet, and environmental control unit stick into the open space, creating odd angles. It feels roomy after the capsule, but it wouldn't feel that way with a crew of six living and working here.

The place shows signs of real heavy use: scratches, scuff marks, stains on everything. The privacy screen that should surround the toilet is missing. Dents and gouges mar the front panel of the environment control unit, like someone used a hammer on it. No wonder the air stinks.

This just gets worse and worse. After a moment's hesitation, I seal the air lock behind me. No escape that way.

The scar cramps as I turn the handle. I've over-stressed my hand opening and closing so many hatches. They're everywhere. Kind of brings home the fact that space is out there. That it has to be
kept
out.

“You lost, kid?”

“Coming.”

Facing the air lock, in the right ceiling corner along the back wall there's a small, square opening that leads to flight deck. A ladder is mounted on the wall beneath the opening—ridiculous in zero-g, but needed when on the ground. Of course, this old tub is never going Earthside again, not with all the damage to the outer hull and heat tiles that I saw on approach.

Leaving the duffel behind, I kick off for the ladder, then yank on a rung. Too much force! I go careening through the opening, slam into the sidewall, and ricochet into the ceiling. I'm headed for a belly flop when the old spacer grabs my shirt. The wild ride ends just inches above the floor.

“Make every move slow and easy, kid, or you'll bust something.” He gives my shirt a little twitch that rotates me slowly upright.

I grab a hand strap in the ceiling. The transfer of momentum twists me helplessly toward the rear of flight deck. The side and back walls should be crammed with electronic equipment, but all the consoles are gone. In the gaping black holes, the multicolored cable harnesses wave slowly in the air currents like the tentacles of sea anemones.

Through the rear windows, the capsule is visible at the end of the docking tunnel: a round lollipop on a stick, not much bigger than the golf cart. Behind it I can see the curving top of the mystery canister and the silvered spheres of the fuel and oxygen tanks poking out of the doorless cargo bay.

There's a slight jolt, and a sharp sound, like a firecracker. The shuttle lurches, then abruptly steadies when the spacer fires a stabilizer. The capsule shoots away in a puff of gas. It plunges into the atmosphere on a tight arc. Orange fire trails from it, burning away its outer shell until the internal pressure bursts it apart like a popped balloon. A thousand sparkling streamers drift toward the clouds. There go my 3-Vid goggles. I run my finger over the empty clip on my belt.

“A moment of silence for the deceased.”

Now what's he talking about? I twist to face him. He's in the seat on the right, adjusting controls. The flight systems are all there and sparkling like new. That's a relief!

“Just did you a big favor, kid. It's not easy to evade TIA, but being dead helps.”

“I don't understand.”

“It'll be on the news tonight. Crazy old spacer out for a last joyride, didn't quite achieve orbital velocity in an ancient piece of crap. Sad. Since the cameras show you going with me, you're dead, too.”

“You almost killed us for real!”

His mouth sets flat. Spoiled his fun, mentioning that. Didn't cheer me up any, either. “Strap in.”

“You never
asked
me if I wanted to come.”

“I gave you your chance. I told you to get lost.”

“I needed your help.”

“And I'm giving it to you!” He faces forward, slaps down a toggle. “We can discuss the finer moral points later. Right now, I need a clear head to get us safely out of orbit. So stop your whining and obey my orders.”

I don't move from my hold on the ceiling grip. “If you leave orbit like you dock, we haven't got a chance!”

He stops working. Without looking at me, he says in a quiet voice, “Your feelings were in control in that capsule, kid, not your head. That's bad news.”

“We're talking about
you!”

“You've got to master your feelings. Find a separate place for them. A box in your mind. Box in your heart.” He traces the square frame of the keyboard on the center console between the seats. “It's the way to stay alive out here.”

“So something got out of your box in the capsule?” I'm not dense. He's admitting his mistake, even as he lays these words of wisdom on me. “And now it's back in, right? I can just relax and enjoy the trip?”

He turns his head, stares with those ice-blue eyes. “You've got spunk. I like that.”

He reaches for a thick book clamped to the right bulkhead. He sails it at me. I catch it and start to drift toward the rear wall from absorbing its energy. Quickly, I grab for the hand strap to anchor myself.

Spreading the book open in midair, I see that it's the preignition checklist for the main rocket motors. The thick plastic-covered pages are reassuring. If there's one thing I learned studying the first Moon missions, it's that astronauts spend a lot of time reading from checklists—long, boring lists—over and over again. They never complain. One switch in the wrong position might mean disaster. Even today, with many more automated systems, there are certain things a pilot wants to be sure of for himself.

“Another thing that keeps you alive is going by the book. That's easier with a copilot. How about it, kid?”

Copilot?

The empty chair next to him is identical to the pilot's seat. The joystick. The controls. They're connected to
real
thrusters.
Real
rockets. With the book, I can keep an eye on him. Watch for mistakes.

A little push and my feet drift over the computer terminal between the two seats. A touch on the button-studded ceiling brings my rump down into the chair. I cinch the harness buckle.

He doesn't exactly smile, but he does say kind of friendly, “Welcome aboard.”

The three big monitors on the flight console display numbers and course plots. One reads TRANSLUNAR INJECTION and shows a free-return trajectory used by the Apollo Moon missions.

“You're not going to go that way, are you?”

“You recognize the course?” He sounds impressed.

“Yeah, the Apollo missions used it. The Saturn V could barely lift the Apollo stack into orbit, let alone carry enough fuel for a powered run. But there must be enough fuel in our tank to go the faster routes.”

“Looks can be deceiving, kid. That tank's big, but its not full. And only one rocket motor works.”

I should've guessed. “So, how long
is
it going to take us?”