Luna

LUNA

Rick Chesler

COPYRIGHT 2015 by Rick Chesler

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author thanks Doug Corleone for his insightful input into the early drafts of this novel.

Thanks also to Gary Lucas and Severed Press for helping this story to see the light of day.

Prologue | Rabbit Hole

Every laborious step astronaut Strat Knowles took caused him to flash on the blown-up photograph of Buzz Aldrin that had stood at the far edge of his cluttered desk since his second year of high school. The photo had been snapped by Neil Armstrong during the first moon landing on July 20, 1969, long before Strat was even born, yet it seemed as though he’d lived in that singular moment more than any other over the past fifteen years. As a teenager, he’d spent countless hours imagining what it would be like to walk on the moon, whether it would be, as astronauts past had described, like plodding through water. He’d practiced walking along the bottom of his parent’s pool to see what it what feel like.

Strat no longer had to imagine.

The awe he’d long ago conceived remained with him as he approached the entrance to the underground warren into which his colleague had descended twenty-six minutes ago, yet it was accompanied by a fear he’d never fathomed. Jayson had entered the tunnels in search of a third colleague, Grant, who was due back to the surface more than an hour ago. Both of Strat’s colleagues had gone silent, leaving nothing behind but the static currently swelling within his helmet. Strat was alone in the icy realm of the moon’s subterranean spaces, and now his only available course of action was to follow Grant and Jayson down the rabbit hole.

Strat couldn’t alone operate the spacecraft meant to bring them home, nor could he simply lift the radio receiver and summon help. No one could reach him in time. It was like being alone in the Death Zone on Everest. The only chance of survival was heading down, even as his body threatened to freeze where he stood.

He spoke into his transmitter once more but could barely hear his own words through all the static. He started his descent.

It took longer than the seven minutes it should have, his instincts forcing his fingers to tighten around the safety rope every twenty seconds or so. It was still strange to push downward in the low gravity. Even if he survived and made a dozen more trips to the moon, he’d never grow used to it.

If.

It was the first time Strat recognized that he might never again see Earth.

One last glimpse.

Why hadn’t he bothered to steal one last glimpse? Because in all his years of fantasizing, he’d never once imagined perishing on the moon itself, only on the journey. He’d seen footage of the Space Shuttle
Challenger
breaking apart seventy-three seconds after the launch of its tenth mission, exploding into a massive ball of flames. As a child in 2003, he’d been glued to the television and witnessed the disintegration of
Columbia
as the space shuttle re-entered Earth’s atmosphere. Since then, there had been no catastrophic disasters. Not a single fatality. More than a decade ago, space travel entered the private sector and now it was said to be as safe as speeding down a dark and twisting freeway while mildly intoxicated. An acceptable risk for stepping into another world.

Still, Strat had ensured his affairs were in order before the launch. He knew the dangers. But the hazards lie in the equipment that sent the crew from Earth to the moon and back. Not on Luna’s surface. And certainly not below it.

Humanity was about to enter the age of space tourism. This, as far as Strat knew, was one of the last missions to the moon not carrying paying passengers. Those back on Earth who had placed deposits to reserve seats upwards of $25 million were waiting, counting the days to their scheduled launch in less than a year.

Strat’s right foot touched solid ground and he shoved himself away from the wall. In his ears, the static continued, a sound so irritating it may as well have been inside his head. He weighed the option of shutting the radio off, possibly missing a message from Grant or Jayson, against keeping it on and moving forward amidst the distracting cacophony. His temper flaring, he abruptly turned the sound off.

Silence
. Blessed silence as thick as the walls on either side of him.

Strat guided his light down the tunnel immediately in front of him. This was where Grant was four minutes before they lost contact. This was the tunnel his crewmate had announced he was entering.

Copy that
, Strat had told him, voice steeped with the dullness of routine.

He kicked his left foot forward, followed with his right, picturing good ol’ Buzz moonwalking atop his desk back on Earth.

You’re on the bottom of Pop’s pool
, Strat told himself.
You can do this.

He remained entirely conscious of the passing time. Jayson had remained in contact for a few minutes longer than Grant, so it wasn’t as though there was a spot in this tunnel that had simply gobbled them up. Here on the moon, everyone moved at precisely the same slow, deliberate pace, a pace dictated by the low gravity.

As the third minute passed, Strat for the first time wondered why the hell they’d had to explore these and the other underground tunnels in the first place. But he knew the reason, he just happened to disagree with it. They were meant to map out a safe route for ticket-holders; the CEO of Outer Limits, the company Strat worked for, was concerned that folks wanted more for their twenty-five mil than a mere stroll on the moon’s surface.

As if these tunnels
a
re going to get asses in the seats
.
It’s the view they’re paying for, to stand on another planetary body and see the famed Earthrise with one’s own eyes...priceless. Who needs this crap down here?

There had been talk of something else, but only among the directors. Some sort of attraction, Strat figured. Over the next decade, Outer Limits’ founder Blake Garner had plans for a moon base, a few permanent, manned stations. Ultimately, Strat was certain, he’d put in an amusement park. After all, the man worshipped Walt Disney, wanted to do for the moon what Disney had done for theme parks back on Earth—to make it a must see destination, a fun-filled adventure for the whole family—as long as they could, and would, pay.

And it would probably work, Strat mused. Space tourism would take off.
No pun intended.
Eventually, the moon would be colonized, and Blake Garner and his company would remain at the center of everything, a Google or Apple for the business of space, a Disney for the Space Generation masses.

Strat’s eyes flicked to the right as a puff of dust seemed to emanate from the wall. He turned and pressed himself against the rock on the opposite side and fixed the spot with his gaze. The wall seemed to shift and Strat was suddenly certain he was seeing things. Not a good sign even on Earth, but a far more dangerous thing on the moon.

He checked the gauges on his display module, but nothing seemed to be malfunctioning. He still had ample oxygen flowing.

Yet the wall moved again. Somehow, it seemed to be
opening
.

Before he could kick a single foot back in the direction from which he’d come, the rock swiftly vanished before his eyes, replaced instantly by an abominable and perfectly unrecognizable image. He squeezed shut his eyes, and within the absolute soundlessness of the helmet that had thus far kept him alive, Stratford Knowles parted his lips in a scream.

1 | Somebody’s Gotta Do It

An aging man stood at the dawn of what everyone around these parts, and quite a few beyond, hoped would usher in a new era: Spaceport America, New Mexico. Risen from the arid ground in a gush of post-dot-com era dollars and heady X-Prize enthusiasm, what would otherwise be one of the most desolate parts of the U.S. was now making a very real bid to take the entire country straight back to the future via private spacecraft.

The man, still physically fit despite his years, wore a plastic badge on a lanyard around his neck and clutched a boxy, battered briefcase so long out of style he was occasionally offered cash for it on the street by some retro-chic hipster. He shaded his eyes from the glaring sun as he stared at the complex of glassy, ultra-modern buildings spread out before him. Some distance away from them, a gleaming, white rocket waited on a launch pad, supported by towering scaffolding. He shook his head full of thick, graying hair at the improbability of it all and began walking toward the largest building, wherein he knew his reputation preceded him.

Nobody liked Federal Aviation Administration Safety Inspector James Burton. Except for the people who flew on the planes he inspected. They sure would like him, if they even knew he existed. But they don’t ever see him. It’s the pilots and mechanics and airline administrators who see him. And they don’t like him. He’s used to that, though. It’s his job to point out when they’re screwing up, and to let their bosses know about it. He was thorough enough that he’d been chosen to represent the FAA on a clearance flight for one of two private companies in a highly publicized and well-funded race to conduct the first tourist moon landing.

His stint in the Air Force hadn’t hurt either, he supposed. He’d even been to space once, technically, that is, if one wasn’t too picky about where the Earth’s atmosphere stopped and “space” began—in a jet. For a few seconds at Mach 2.6, he’d looked up and seen that eerie black sky at high noon over California. And it was those few seconds’ worth of “space experience” that had vaulted him above his fellow civil service drones who wouldn’t know a negative-g dive if it bit them in the ass.

Still, he figured his role here was more symbolic than functional. After all, he’d only been in space for about five seconds in that Air Force jet, all those decades ago, and that was in the co-pilot seat at that. It was like picking a candidate to visit the Mariana Trench in a submarine based on the fact that he’d once stuck his toe in the water at the beach, while everyone else lived in Kansas. Besides, everybody knew that the real space experts—qualified aeronautical engineers—had already checked these craft out, and they were good to go. Been up a dozen times already with the commercial astronauts. They had it down.

Now these two civilian outfits were each one round-trip lunar flight away from being granted clearance to take any Joe Blow with more money than sense to the moon. So why not make it his swan song to help things along, to put the stamp of America’s premier air transportation safety agency on this exciting new form of travel? To get to space, one had to travel through the air, after all.

He was due to retire in six more weeks, however, but this would really give him something to go out on, wouldn’t it?
Burton was the man!
he could hear his colleagues saying after he’d left, no longer a denizen of those stale cubicle farms full of filing cabinets older than he was and grungy, crowded break rooms. All he had to do was strap himself in for the ride, put himself in the shoes of a paying passenger, make sure the crews explained the safety precautions well enough for him to understand and convey to others, and that would be it.

Yet the truth was he didn’t really want to go. Retirement was a few weeks away. Wife. Vacation house. Kids, grandkids. He had a lot to live for. What else did he need? His pension was secure regardless of whether he accepted this assignment. But for some reason when they’d asked him to do it, he couldn’t turn it down. Pride, maybe. Or stupidity. Something. Whatever it was, it had led him, right here, right now, to a commercial rocket on a launch pad in Spaceport America, New Mexico, bound for the
moon
. Yet, as he approached the entrance to the largest building, he knew exactly why he’d opted to go.

Stenson. Pete Stenson.
He might have had something to do with it, right?
That pompous bastard
. Burton shoved aside thoughts of his former boss at the FAA. Stenson was the government ride-along on the other flight. That company was owned by the dot-com billionaire who made that search engine everyone uses, while Burton was assigned to the one bankrolled by the guy who founded some online payment system. Yippee for that guy. But apparently making billions in e-commerce wasn’t enough; he had sufficient drive and ambition left over to personally start his own space company and quite literally shoot for the moon. It was enough to make Burton’s own aspirations for a quiet retirement where an adventurous day would see him in a rowboat catching bass on a lake look ridiculously quaint by comparison.

James reached for the double glass doors and was surprised to see them automatically swing open. He withdrew his hand, semi-embarrassed, and strode into the high-ceilinged lobby. A pretty, headset-wearing receptionist in her mid-twenties glanced at his badge and gave him a room number where, apparently, “They can’t wait to meet you!” He thanked her and took one of the cars at the elevator bank to the sixth and top floor.

He exited the elevator and walked down a plush carpeted hallway featuring framed photographs of various spacecraft, as well as various celebrities, over the decades. One of them depicted Blake Garner, the owner of the spaceship James was getting ready to ride on, shaking hands with President George W. Bush on the steps of the White House. Another had Blake on stage with a famous rock band, introducing the act with his arm around the lead singer in front of a capacity crowd in some arena that bore his company’s name.

Nearing the end of the hall, James checked the room numbers, opened one and stepped inside.