Over the Darkened Landscape (6 page)

“Glory!?” Peter practically roars the word, slamming his cane hard on the edge of the table. We all flinch.
All
of us. “You call what happened to us
glory?
I lost three of my best friends out there, as well as half my sight. We, all of us, even you, lost so much of the strength in our bones from floating almost aimlessly for five fucking years until the Chinese, the
Chinese
, managed to get a rescue mission to us! What the fuck have the Chinese done lately, anyway, besides fall in on themselves in chaos and starvation?”

He holds up his hand to stave off interruption, then waves it around to take in our surroundings. “And what about this? I sure as hell don’t see any
glory
here! Fucking agency and fucking government use us up, spit us out, give us a pension that barely gets any one of us by. Civilians don’t want to hear jack shit about us, they got enough of their own worries, giant hole in the ozone, that shit they call air to breathe! Money and population problems like we never even
dreamed
about!

“And then we hear that you got it good, that the President listens to you, values your advice. You got nice suits, enough food to eat, a comfortable place to live. And man,” Peter leans forward, almost hisses this part, “I envy the fact that there are people out there who care enough to listen to what you say. Me, I got a sorry bunch of broken-down ex-astronauts who run to hide in a corner first chance they get to keep from going nuts, surrounded by more people than any one of us can handle. Not that I fucking blame them. I just thank God that your body is as screwed up as everyone else’s. I couldn’t have handled you being perfect there, too.”

We are all deathly silent for a moment, me from shock. Then Peter gets up and starts to hobble away from the table. Jason wheels his chair away as well.

“Wait! Please.” We all turn and look in shock, never having heard the word
please
from his mouth before.

He’s standing now, leaning on the table and sweat beading on his forehead, looking at Peter and Jason, fear and anger seeming to intermingle on his face. He breathes deeply for a few seconds, and then speaks again.

“There will be room for you, for me . . . all of us.”

Silence for a moment.

And then, “What do you mean by room?” I ask.

Now he looks at me, stares into my eyes with that intense look that I would once have died for. “Room, Randall. First, get you all out of here, get you set up with the best possible medical care, then get you on the road and selling this thing. Then, if this is fast-tracked as easily as we think it might be, there would be room for us on the third flight, at latest the fourth.” He stops speaking and sits back down, looking very satisfied now.

It hits me, suddenly, what he means. I’m almost sick to my stomach, the excitement at the possibility, the terror of being lied to once again.

Alex pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, rubs his eyes in exhaustion. “For real?”

“For real. No one else has the background, a selling point even considering our ages. Of course, the work we’d be given would be minimal compared to what it was the last time out, but just think. No more pain because of gravity, no more fear because of crowds.”

“Jesus,” I whisper. I look up to the ceiling, imagining.

Again there is silence, and then Tom says, very calmly, “Fuck you. And fuck the President, too. I’ve been yanked around enough to know when the rope is being pulled tight again. I think I’ll take my chances here, rather than get crapped on all over again.”

I gape at Tom, and then see with surprise that Jason has turned and is wheeling his chair away again. “Same goes for me,” he calls over his shoulder. “I’ll take my chances with what I know, this time.” Jason and his chair disappear into the old locker room, Tom behind the screen to his cot.

He looks helplessly at their backs. I can tell that he wants to say something. A look crosses his face and I think, I
know
, that he wants to order them back. But he stops himself, lowers his head and looks at his gnarled hands, clenched into fists and leaning on the table.

“We . . . you have all suffered intense pain because of what happened to the program. Peter.” He raises his head and fixes Peter with the look. “Peter, I’m so sorry about Liz. I wanted to come to the funeral, but they had me sequestered in a hospital, trying to stem the tide.”

Tears well up in Peter’s eyes, but he fights them down. Liz died fifteen years ago, killed herself because she, like all our wives, couldn’t handle being married to a fucked-up alcoholic former astronaut. But she had chosen a more permanent way to forget.

“I hate to dredge up old pain like that, Peter. I just, I just want you all to know that I never did forget about you. That I haven’t spent these years ignoring you and trying to shut you all out.” He takes a breath, and I watch with awe and fear as his jaw trembles. “I knew that there was only one way for me to help you all. But it took so God damn long to get there.”

He looks to the curtains where Tom and Jason have gone. “I wish they could know.” Then he turns away.

Servos whine, the exoskeleton helping him walk to the door. He stops halfway and looks at us, sadness in his eyes. “We were a team, even a family. I am sorry for all that’s happened to you,” he looks around the room, “but what has happened means I can only help you
now
. And only if you can help me.” He turns again and shuffles out the door.

We are still for a moment, and then Peter hobbles over to the door as quickly as his cane and bad knees will let him. He pauses as if in thought, then turns and looks at me, then Alex. He is afraid and sad, I can see it so clearly. And then he follows out the door.

Alex tips his head down, chin almost resting on his chest, eyes closed tight, and then he doesn’t move.

And me. God help me, I don’t know what to do. I walk over to the window, dragging my chair behind me, and sit, waiting.

Perhaps when the crowds come out tonight. Maybe then I’ll know.

Voyage to the Moon

S
tanding on the pad, he let his gaze drift back up to the full moon, ignoring the techs for the moment as they zipped and buckled and sealed him into his orange launch suit. The moon hung low in the night sky right now, but would slowly drift into place directly overhead. He hoped the high foreheads had calculated the perigee and launch rate correctly.

“Helmet,” said one of the techs. He nodded briefly, gazing for a second into his reflection in the visor, reading the backwards letters of his name badge in bold script:
Armstrong
. He then stood stock still as they fitted it over his head and sealed it into place. He hefted his auxiliary dephlogisticator, heard the hiss as air began to stream into his suit, then nodded at the tech when he pointed at his own throat. Yes, he could breathe fine.

From there he was helped into the launch vehicle, eased onto the couch and plugged into the console before the door was shut, sealing him off from the outside world. Then things were silent for a few more seconds, just the hiss of air and his breathing echoing around inside his helmet.

“You read?” The tinny voice of the Mission Specialist calling jolted him out of his momentary reverie. He tried responding, but found both his throat and his lips were dry. He licked his lips then swallowed, tried again.

“Loud and clear. How long do I have?”

“We open the box in less than a minute. The site is still in shadow, but you’ll only have another thirty seconds or so before it starts.”

“Roger that. Just hope we can keep in touch after I launch.”

“Thirty seconds. They tell us you’ll be able to. I’m sure they’re right.”

He grunted. “Hope so.”

“Get ready. Box is opening now. Water’s running.”

Another voice came on. “Check. Pressure acceptable.”

“Clear the pad,” said the Mission Specialist. “Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Confirmation. Target has acquired light.”

He gritted his teeth, waiting for the first jolt, hoping it would only be that and not he and his vessel being crushed. But nothing came. He was about to ask what was happening when the second voice came on again.

“We have contact on all three stalks.”

“Roger,” came a third voice. “Automated systems working fine. The mirrors are steering them, directing the light correctly, no faults found.”

“Ready the latches.”

A row of gauges and blinking lights sat above his head. He reached up and cleared the board, readied three switches. “Tell me when.”

“Get ready,” said the Mission Specialist. “Number Two now.”

He flipped up the second switch. There was a scraping sound and the vehicle slid up and to the left a bit.

“Number One now.”

He threw the first switch. More scraping, and this time the nose tilted up and to the right.

“Number Three now.”

He threw the final switch, listened to the grinding as it bumped against the hull and then was caught by the latch. “All green inside,” he said.

“Roger that,” came the reply. “Looks like three good contacts from down here. Liftoff is going fine, and velocity is increasing.”

He
could
feel more motion now. At first the most he was getting was the sensation of being jostled and bumped back and forth. But now he was beginning to feel the acceleration, enough that he was even being pressed back into his couch.

“Five hundred meters,” said the Mission Specialist.

“Roger.” Checking his chronometer, he blinked in surprise. Test launches had never gone this quickly. Of course, limited resources had kept them from using more than one in each of the two previous tests, rather than the three for this voyage. He hoped he wouldn’t overshoot.

“Thousand meters,” came the voice again. It was sounding more distant and tinny. They were going to try and hook repeaters along the length of it, but if they weren’t successful, he could count on losing contact very soon now.

Nothing to concern himself about now. He busied himself by checking instrumentation, making sure everything was working all right. Every once in a while he looked out the small window in the hatch, watching the Moon as it grew ever larger.

“Fifteen hundred meters.” The voice sounded even farther away now. “Damn it. Sorry, we weren’t able to get the repeaters on. The whole load got crushed when one of the stalks coiled over.” He closed his eyes, listened to his breathing and to the steady rumble as he ascended higher and higher.

“Roger. Watch for me at the appointed hour, no matter.”

“Affirmative.” The voice scratched, broke up for a few seconds, then for a moment was overridden by voices from the Firmament, mysterious message crackling and hissing in the background: “
Welcher Engel ist dies
?
Von welcher Höhe sprichts du
?” Then one last whisper from Earth. “Do us proud.”

He knew he was going to be on his own this trip anyhow, with or without communication with home. More Firmamental interference was starting to slip through, so he shut off the
choralis
and turned to watch the Moon grow larger.

Soon he would be there, and no matter what happened after, he would always be known as Jack Armstrong, First Man on the Moon.

Provided the beanstalk was able to get him there.

The face of the Moon now covered the entire sky. He could now see the gardens the astrologers had divined, long rows of green marching alongside the blue of a finger-shaped lake. And at the end of the lake there hovered the clouds that were there each and every day, hiding what no one knew.

But the astrologers and the high foreheads said they knew it must be important, and that was why Jack was on this mission. Even if it was only contact with whoever tended the gardens.

It seemed now like he was upside-down, land rushing to greet him as he plummeted towards a crushing impact. But at the last minute Jack activated the forward parasol, and in the ensuing shadow the stalks twisted and twirled in their desperate search for moonlight. The vehicle did a stomach-wrenching spin and then settled down on the surface of the Moon as light as a feather.

Jack switched on the
choralis
. “The
Aquila
has landed,” he said, sure they wouldn’t be able to hear him, but still wanting to follow the established procedures.

The speakers responded with more Firmamental interference, a high, soft voice saying, “
Ningún angel está a salvo en este lugar
.
¡Ten cuidado! ¡Ten cuidado!
”

A twist of the handle and the latch popped open. It was daytime here, as opposed to night back on Earth. Jack supposed this made sense, with the face of the Moon being lit so bright with every pass it made overhead.

He unbuckled himself and sat straight up, leaning over to get as good a look as he could through his helmet. He had landed on soil, dark gray dirt that looked to have the consistency of the fine chalk one of his old schoolmasters had used when summoning a demon for lessons. In the distance he could see a band of green, and beyond that what looked to be fog. Overhead sat the Earth, a broad blue and brown disk, and beyond it sat the Sun, harsh yellow peeking out from behind its (Earth-related) nighttime hiding spot along the Universal Plane.

Hefting his dephlogisticator, he swung his legs over the edge and gingerly set foot on the surface of the Moon. He felt lighter here, enough to possibly make a significant difference in his step.
Choralis
still on and still whispering scratchy nonsense, he announced, “That’s a small footstep for one man; a giant reach for much of mankind.” He smiled. Suitably overdone, just what the guys back on Earth would like.

The high foreheads and all of the astrologers had predicted that the Lunar day would be longer than an Earth day, and today the full moon was due to sit visible in the sky for several hours after the Sun poked its nose over the Plane again. All this meant that Jack had extra time to explore, but not enough to waste. He had to take care of his assignment and get back down the beanstalk before it wilted away when the moonlight disappeared.

Resting his dephlogisticator on the ground beside him, Jack reached back into the
Aquila
and began pulling out supplies. A small backpack with food and medical and foraging supplies came first, followed by a small bag that held his
camera distincta
and
camera activus
. He pulled both of these from their bag and took both still and moving images of the surrounding landscape, as well as of the Earth overhead.