Lunar Descent (46 page)

“Oh, shit,” he breathed. “We're in trouble.”

There was a monster on the loose in the ladies' dorm.

Most of the women had managed to escape from Dorm 2-A before the armored Marine had come in through the tunnel from the Hilton, but a few were still trapped in the section when Mighty Joe managed to bypass the emergency hatch controls of the tunnel leading into Dorm 1-A. He caught a glimpse of the mammoth CAS clunking purposively toward the tunnel just as the twin hatches, eight feet apart from each other, irised shut.

The hatches were designed to seal automatically in the event of a decompression accident, isolating the dorms from each other so that a blowout wouldn't affect the entire subcomplex. They weren't as sturdy as the airlock hatches, but they were airtight; they should be able to stop a Marine in a CAS. But Mighty Joe wasn't taking any chances.… “Liz, what's going on there?” he demanded, speaking into his headset mike. “Talk to me! You guys okay?”

Elizabeth Sawyer, the hydroponicist who was stranded in 2-A, was on the phone in her niche on the other side of the sealed tunnel.
We're fine. It
…
he could have fired at us when he came through, but I guess he's not going to unless we get in the way
. Static for a moment, then:
He's in front of the hatch now. He's raising his rifle and
…
Joe, I think he's going to fire a grenade
!

Holy shit
! “Everybody,
duck
!” he shouted, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to get away from the hatch. “Incoming! Down, down,
down
!”

Behind him, a dozen men and women scurried for cover, dodging behind niches, falling over each other to get through the adjacent tunnel into Subcomp A, even bolting into a nearby restroom. Some goddamn great defense force we've got here, Mighty Joe thought as he backed up against the door of a niche.…

Whammmm
! There was a muffled explosion from the tunnel and the floor itself seemed to shake. There goes the first emergency hatch, Joe thought. The niche door behind him popped open. He glanced around and saw Harry Drinkwater peering through the cracked door. Over Drinkwater's shoulder, he glimpsed one of the communications officers—what's-his-name, Schneider—bent over the keyboard of a laptop computer, his desk and bunk covered with reams of printout. Schneider didn't even look up from his computer screen. “What's going on out here?” Drinkwater demanded.

“Where have you …? Never mind that now, shut the goddamn—!”

WHHAAAAMM!

Mighty Joe ducked, throwing his arms over his head, but looked up just in time to see the hatch cover being blown straight out of its frame. It hit the wall at the far end of the corridor with a loud
Clanngg
! “Hell's bells,” he whispered. “I shoulda joined the Marines.…”

A new voice came through his headset.
Joe, what's going on down there
? Les Riddell snapped.
Is that Marine in the dorms
?

The niche door slammed shut behind Drinkwater. “No shit, Les!” Joe said, “And I think he's pissed off about something!”

The hulking CAS lurched through the destroyed hatch, the big muzzle of the assault rifle sweeping back and forth. The armored Marine half-turned toward Mighty Joe and the rifle pointed straight at the moondog's face. Joe instinctively raised his hands above his head. Just below the eye-slit was a tiny audio grille; Joe was surprised when a voice came out of it.

Where's MainOps
? a harsh, distorted voice squawked.

Mighty Joe stared back at the rifle. “Point that thing somewhere else, egg-man,” he growled. “Don't you have any fucking manners?”

The gun didn't move from his face.
I don't have time for bullshit, hairy. Tell me the way to MainOps or I'll shoot your nuts off
. The muzzle dipped a few inches until it was pointed straight at Young's groin.
One … two
…

Mighty Joe wasn't about to see whether or not the Marine was bluffing. “Take a left into the next tunnel and go straight until you reach the stairs,” he said quickly, pointing with his right hand. “Can't miss it.”

The Marine said nothing, but the assault rifle swung away from Joe. As the mammoth exoskeleton turned ponderously, Joe shouted, “Hey! Robby the Robot!” The hulk hesitated for a moment. “Don't shoot anybody, okay? It's just a goddamn strike, for chrissakes.”

The Marine didn't reply, but the massive arm holding the gun rose and fired a single round at the ceiling. Mighty Joe flinched as a recessed light fixture shattered, spraying glass across the corridor. Then the gun came down and the juggernaut lurched toward the open tunnel to Subcomp A; someone on the other side must have realized that it was pointless to seal its hatches as well.

Mighty Joe took a deep breath, lowered his arms, and touched the lobe of his headset. “Les, this is Joe. He's coming your way.” He closed his eyes and let out his breath. “Sorry, man, but you're on your own.”

Harry Drinkwater instinctively ducked as he heard the muffled gunshot from the other side of the niche door. He half-expected to hear more shots, or even the door itself being ripped straight off its hinges. Instead, he heard Mighty Joe saying something indistinguishable, then the heavy
thunk-thunk-thunk
of the Marine's boots stomping through the dorm.

Behind him, the steady tapping of Willard DeWitt's fingers on the keyboard continued unabated, as if the con man were completely unaware of the sudden violence occurring just outside his niche. Drinkwater glanced over his shoulder and once more saw the incredible concentration on DeWitt's face. For almost twenty straight hours now, DeWitt had been hunched over the laptop computer, glued to the ever-shifting numbers on his screen, immersed in the separate reality of the high-stakes game he was playing. A game which was about to end …

The general-quarters alarm went off, a steady Klaxon which was meant to signal either a blowout or a solar storm. In this instance, Drinkwater knew what it meant. “We've run out of time, Willie,” he said softly. He sagged against the niche door and, looking down at the floor, shook his head. “Nice try, pal, but we didn't make it. Might as well give up.”

For a moment, it seemed as if DeWitt hadn't heard. Drinkwater was about to repeat himself, when DeWitt casually looked up from his screen—for the first time in many hours—and smiled beatifically.

“Skycorp's made an offer,” he said with eerie calm. “Think we should take it?”

An instant was all it took for Tina McGraw to make her move.

Lana Smith and Casey Engel were in the EVA ready-room, standing watch on the airlocks; when the alarm went off, they both ran from the tunnel entrance toward the airlocks. The plan had been, in an emergency, to warn the Marines to seal their CAS armor, then to blow the outer hatches and jettison the RDF squad back out onto the surface.

McGraw wasn't about to let that happen. She had been lurking in the access tunnel to Subcomp B for several minutes now, from the time she had heard that a fifth Marine had made it through the emergency airlock in Subcomp D. As soon as the two moon-dogs were away from the open tunnel hatch, she rushed through the entrance, aimed her Taser at Smith and squeezed the trigger. The 2,500-volt charge hit the suit tech smack in the back; she crumpled to the floor without a sound. Engel got a chance to turn and throw up his hands—yelling that hated nickname of hers—before Quick-Draw nailed him with the Taser's second dart.

“The name's Officer McGraw to you, buster,” she muttered as she jumped over his unconscious body. Running from one airlock to the next, she engaged the manual overrides; one at a time, the inner hatches slid open, freeing each trapped Marine.

Like imprisoned giants from a pulp fantasy novel, the armored Marines stepped through the open airlocks. The one who came out of Airlock One half-raised his assault rifle to cover her.
Who are you
? a metallic voice barked from his suit's exterior speaker.

“Officer Tina McGraw, NASA Space Operations Enforcement Division,” she snapped back. “I'm the one who just set you free.” McGraw pointed toward the tunnel entrance. “Straight through the tunnel, down the corridor, and up the—”

We know the way
. The massive CAS suits began moving toward the tunnel.
Thanks for being a fink, McGraw. We'll handle it from here
.

“Uh … sure.” She watched as the four armored Marines tromped across the ready-room and moved in single file through the tunnel.

Where there had once been a heroic vision of herself leading the charge, retaking the base from the drunken, oafish rednecks who had humiliated her and dishonored her badge, there was now the abrupt sense of loneliness. A single word, from her own ally, had struck her with greater impact than a dart from her own Taser.

Fink
…

The Taser dangled in her hand as she looked down at the still forms of her fellow moondogs.

“Track to target,” Lazy Jake told the
Delaware
's fire-control system. The red crosshatch on his VR visor followed the movements of his eyes, shifting two degrees to the left, ascending five degrees to the right, and falling into place on the MainOps tower.

“Lock on target,” he murmured and the Crosshatch pulsed twice, signaling that the fire-control system would remain targeted on MainOps. The
Delaware
was whipping across the lunar wasteland, flying low and bearing down on Descartes Station. McAdams was on full auto now except for the stick, which he controlled inside the fist of his right hand: five miles up, seven miles downrange from target, and closing in like a bat out of hell. Take out MainOps and there goes the ball game.…

“Arm cannon,” he told the computer. An amber light flashed at the bottom of his visor. “Fire on my command.” A double click in his headphones. Just aim 'em and waste 'em, as his combat instructor once said. We'll supply the body-bags.

He pushed the stick forward a little more. Altitude dropped to ten thousand feet, range to five miles. He checked the screen again. Classic. Coming in right out of the Sun. The last range of hills was coming up now. Descartes was now a big, easy bull's-eye in front of his eyes.…

DeWitt pointed at the message on his screen and
tsked
. “One-point-five billion over the next three years and an option for purchase of product over the next ten fiscal years at a twenty-five percent discount?” he complained. “Who do they think they're dealing with here?”

Drinkwater could barely hear him over the general-quarters alarm blaring through the ceiling speaker. “Just sign the deal already!” he shouted.

“You've got to be kidding me.” DeWitt picked up his cold mug of coffee and took a sip. “I mean, the subsidiary stock option alone is worth …”

“I don't give a righteous goddamn!” Drinkwater screamed. “Just make the deal!”

Willard DeWitt sighed and picked up his lightpen. Then he stared at the screen, shook his head, and dropped the pen back on the desktop. He placed his fingers on the keyboard once more. “One-point-twenty-five over three and a fifteen percent discount,” he murmured aloud as he typed in the new numbers. “And that's our final offer.”

Harry started to yell at him again. Then he caught himself. It was their one last chance.…

“I'm heading for the radio station,” he blurted, wrenching open the door and bolting out into the hallway. “Call me there when you get something!” He stopped in the doorway and yelled back, “And
forget
about the fucking discount!”

“Airlocks One, Two, Five, and Six are opening!”

“
Delaware
downrange two miles!” Baker called out. “Altitude three thousand feet and closing!”

He was intently watching the blip on his screen, but already they could see a white dot moving past the rim of Cyrillus Crater on the far horizon. From behind Lester's chair, Butch was watching the incoming lander. “I don't like the looks of this,” she whispered.

“Neither do I.” Riddell was already out of his seat. He intuitively realized what was about to happen; the
Delaware
was about to make a strafing run, and MainOps was the most vulnerable target at Descartes Station.… “All right, everybody, clear the deck,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

The command crew looked up at him uncertainly, but one more glance through the window was enough to make Riddell more insistent. “C'mon, folks!” he yelled, jumping off the dais and clapping his hands. “Move, move,
move
!”

That was enough. All at once, the men and women in MainOps were out of their seats and stampeding for the stairwell hatch. Lester grabbed Butch's hand, yanked her in front of him, and shoved her headlong toward the hatch. “Get out of here!” he shouted at both her and the others. “Haul ass! Move!”

Butch grabbed his hand, but she was pulled away by the riptide of bodies. The next moment, she was swept out of sight through the stairwell hatch. In another few seconds, MainOps was deserted; Lester could hear the command team stampeding down the spiral stairs, yelling in confusion and fear at each other. He was the last to leave.

He headed for the hatch, then hesitated and glanced around the empty command center. One last look.…

“Goodbye,” Lester said softly. It was like saying farewell to an old friend. Then he jumped through the hatch, catching himself upon the railing at the top step. He whirled around and yanked back the cover of the emergency hatch control panel.

At that moment the fusillade of 30 mm shells ripped through the eastern windows of MainOps; there was a roar as all the glass panels blew out at once. Lester screamed and stabbed the button to close the hatch. His hair was whipped around his head by the tornado-like force of the blow; deafened by the roar, shielding his eyes with his hand, he caught a glimpse of glass, printout, pens, and potted plants being torn loose by the fogged escaping air, until the hatch irised shut, closing off the noise and fury.