The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (41 page)

“Of
course. A king is the people’s only protection against tyranny …
especially against the worst of all tyrants, themselves. Prof will be ideal for
the job … because he does not want the job. His only shortcoming is that
he is a bachelor with no heir. We’ll fix that. I’m going to name
you as his heir. Crown Prince. His Royal Highness Prince Manuel de la Paz, Duke
of Luna City, Admiral General of the Armed Forces and Protector of the
Weak.”

I
stared. Then buried face in hands. “Oh, Bog!”

“TANSTAAFL!”

Monday
12 October 2076 about nineteen hundred I was headed home after a hard day of
nonsense in our offices in Raffles. Delegation of grain farmers wanted to see
Prof and I had been called back because he was in Hong Kong Luna. Was rude to
them. Had been two months of embargo and F.N. had never done us favor of being
sufficiently nasty. Mostly they had ignored us, made no reply to our
claims—I suppose to do so would have been to recognize us. Stu and
Sheenie and Prof had been hard put to slant news from Earthside to keep up a
warlike spirit.

At
first everybody kept his p-suit handy. They wore them, helmets under arms,
going to and from work in corridors. But that slacked off as days went by and
did not seem to be any danger—p-suit is nuisance when you don’t
need it, so bulky. Presently taprooms began to display signs: NO P-SUITS
INSIDE. If a Loonie can’t stop for half a liter on way home because of
p-suit, he’ll leave it home or at station or wherever he needs it most.

My
word, had neglected matter myself that day—got this call to go back to
office and was halfway there before I remembered.

Had
Just reached easement lock thirteen when I heard and felt a sound that scares a
Loonie more than anything else—a
chuff
! in
distance followed by a draft. Was into lock almost without undogging, then
balanced pressures and through, dogged it behind me and ran for our home
lock—through it and shouting:

“P-suits,
everybody! Get boys in from tunnels and close all airtight doors!”

Mum
and Milla were only adults in sight. Both looked startled, got busy without a
word. I burst into workshop, grabbed p-suit. “Mike! Answer!”

“I’m
here, Man,” he said calmly.

“Heard
explosive pressure drop. What’s situation?”

“That’s
level three, L-City. Rupture at Tube Station West, now partly controlled. Six
ships landed, L-City under attack—”

“What?”

“Let
me finish, Man. Six transports landed, L-City under attack by troops, Hong Kong
inferred to be, phone lines broken at relay Bee Ell. Johnson City under attack;
I have closed the armor doors between J-City and Complex Under. I cannot see
Novylen but blip projection indicates it is under attack. Same for Churchill, Tycho
Under. One ship in high ellipsoid over me, rising, inferred to be command ship.
No other blips.”

“Six
ships—where in hell were YOU?”

He
answered so calmly that I steadied down. “Farside approach, Man;
I’m blind back there. They came in on tight Garrison didoes, skimming the
peaks; I barely saw the chop-off for Luna City. The ship at J-City is the only
one I can see; the other landings I conclusively infer from the ballistics
shown by blip tracks. I heard the break-in at Tube West, L-City, and can now hear
fighting in Novylen. The rest is conclusive inference, probability above point
nine nine. I called you and Professor at once.”

Caught
breath. “Operation Hard Rock, Prepare to Execute.”

“Program
ready. Man, not being able to reach you, I used your voice. Play back?”

“Nyet—Yes!
Da!”

Heard
“myself” tell watch officer at old catapult head to go on red alert
for “Hard Rock”—flrst load at launch, all others, on belts,
everything cast loose, but do not launch until ordered by me
personally—then launch to plan, full automatic. “I” made him
repeat back.

“Okay,”
I told Mike. “Drill gun crews?”

“Your
voice again. Manned, and then sent back to ready rooms. That command ship
won’t reach aposelenion for three hours four point seven minutes. No
target for more than five hours.”

“He
may maneuver. Or launch missiles.”

“Slow
down, Man. Even a missile I’ll see with minutes to spare. It’s full
bright lunar up there now—how much do you want the men to take?
Unnecessarily.”

“Uh
… sorry. Better let me talk to Greg.”

“Play
back—” Heard “my” voice talking to my co-husband at
Mare Undarum; “I” sounded tense but calm. Mike had given him
situation, had told him to prepare Operation Little David’s Sling, keep
it on standby for full automatic. “I” had assured him that master
computer would keep standby computer programmed, and shift would be made
automatically if communication was broken. “I” also told him that
he must take command and use own judgment if communication was lost and not
restored after four hours—listen to Earthside radio and make up own mind.

Greg
had taken it quietly, repeated his orders, then had said, “Mannie, tell
family I love them.”

Mike
had done me proud; he had answered for me with just right embarrassed choke.
“I’ll do that, Greg—and look, Greg. I love you, too. You know
that, don’t you?”

“I
know it, Mannie … and I’m going to say a special prayer for
you.”

“Thanks,
Greg.”

“‘Bye,
Mannie. Go do what you must.”

So
I went and did what I had to do; Mike had played my role as well or better than
I could. Finn, when he could be reached, would be handled by
“Adam.” So I left, fast, calling out Greg’s message of love
to Mum. She was p-suited and had roused Grandpaw and suited him in—first
time in years. So out I went, helmet closed and laser gun in hand.

And
reached lock thirteen and found it blind-dogged from other side with nobody in
sight through bull’s-eye. All correct, per drill—except stilyagi in
charge of that lock should have been in sight.

Did
no good to pound. Finally went back way I had come—and on through our
home, through our vegetable tunnels and on up to our private surface lock
leading to our solar battery.

And
found a shadow on its bull’s-eye when should have been scalding
sunlight—damned Terran ship had landed on Davis surface! Its jacks formed
a giant tripod over me, was staring up its jets.

Backed
clown fast and out of there, blind-dogging both hatches, then blind-dogged
every pressure door on way back. Told Mum, then told her to put one of boys on
back door with a laser gun—here, take this one.

No
boys, no men, no able-bodied women—Mum, Gramp, and our small children
were all that were left; rest had gone looking for trouble. Mimi wouldn’t
take laser gun. “I don’t know how to use it, Manuel, and it’s
too late to learn; you keep it. But they won’t get in through Davis
Tunnels. I know some tricks you never heard of.”

Didn’t
stop to argue; arguing with Mimi is waste of time—and she might know
tricks I didn’t know; she had stayed alive in Luna a long time, under
worse conditions than I had ever known.

This
time lock thirteen was manned; two boys on duty let me through. I demanded
news.

“Pressure’s
all right now,” older one told me. “This level, at least. Fighting
down toward Causeway. Say, General Davis, can’t I go with you?
One’s enough at this lock.”

“Nyet.”

“Want
to get me an earthworm!”

“This
is your post, stay on it. If an earthworm comes this way, he’s yours.
Don’t you be his.” Left at a trot.

So
as a result of own carelessness, not keeping p-suit with me, all I saw of
Battle in Corridors was tail end—hell of a “defense
minister.”

Charged
north in Ring corridor, with helmet open; reached access lock for long ramp to
Causeway. Lock was open; cursed and stopped to dog it as I went through,
warily—saw why it was open; boy who had been guarding it was dead. So
moved most cautiously down ramp and out onto Causeway.

Was
empty at this end but could see figures and hear noise in-city, where it opens
out. Two figures in p-suits and carrying guns detached selves and headed my
way. Burned both.

One
p-suited man with gun looks like another; I suppose they took me for one of
their flankers. And to me they looked no different from Finn’s men, at
that distance—save that I never thought about it. A new chum
doesn’t move way a cobher does; he moves feet too high and always
scrambling for traction. Not that I stopped to analyze, not even:
“Earthworms! Kill!” Saw them, burned them. They were sliding softly
along floor before realized what I’d done.

Stopped,
intending to grab their guns. But were chained to them and could not figure out
how to get loose—key needed, perhaps. Besides, were not lasers but
something I had never seen: real guns. Fired small explosive missiles I learned
later—just then all I knew was no idea how to use. Had spearing knives on
ends, too, sort called “bayonets,” which was reason I tried to get
them loose. Own gun was good for only ten full-power burns and no spare power
pack; those spearing bayonets looked useful—one had blood on it, Loonie
blood I assume.

But
gave up in seconds only, used belt knife to make dead sure they stayed dead, and
hurried toward fight, thumb on switch.

Was
a mob, not a battle. Or maybe a battle is always that way, confusion and noise
and nobody really knowing what’s going on. In widest part of Causeway,
opposite Bon Marche where Grand Ramp slopes northward down from level three,
were several hundred Loonies, men and women, and children who should have been
at home. Less than half were in p-suits and only a few seemed to have
weapons—and pouring down ramp were soldiers, all armed.

But
first thing I noticed was noise, din that filled my open helmet and beat on
ears—a growl. Don’t know what else to call it; was compounded of
every anger human throat can make, from squeals of small children to bull roars
of grown men. Sounded like biggest dog fight in history—and suddenly
realized I was adding my share, shouting obscenities and wordless yells.

Girl
no bigger than Hazel vaulted up onto rail of ramp, went dancing up it
centimeters from shoulders of troopers pouring down. She was armed with what
appeared to be a kitchen cleaver; saw her swing it, saw it connect.
Couldn’t have hurt him much through his p-suit but he went down and more
stumbled over him. Then one of them connected with her, spearing a bayonet into
her thigh and over backwards she went, falling out of sight.

Couldn’t
really see what was going on, nor can remember—just flashes, like girl
going over backwards. Don’t know who she was, don’t know if she
survived. Couldn’t draw a bead from where I was, too many heads in way.
But was an open-counter display, front of a toy shop on my left; I bounced up
onto it. Put me a meter higher than Causeway pavement with clear view of
earthworms pouring down. Braced self against wall, took careful aim, trying for
left chest. Some uncountable time later found that my laser was no longer
working, so stopped. Guess eight troopers did not go home because of me but
hadn’t counted—and time really did seem endless. Although everybody
moving fast as possible, looked and felt like instruction movie where
everything is slowed to frozen motion.

At
least once while using up my power pack some earthworm spotted me and shot
back; was explosion just over my head and bits of shop’s wall hit helmet.
Perhaps that happened twice.

Once
out of juice I jumped down from toy counter, clubbed laser and joined mob
surging against foot of ramp. All this endless time (five minutes?) earthworms
had been shooting into crowd; you could hear sharp splat! and sometimes plop!
those little missiles made as they exploded inside flesh or louder pounk! if
they hit a wall or something solid. Was still trying to reach foot of ramp when
I realized they were no longer shooting.

Were
down, were dead, every one of them—were no longer coming down ramp.

All
through Luna invaders were dead, if not that instant, then shortly. Over two
thousand troopers dead, more than three times that number of Loonies died in
stopping them, plus perhaps as many Loonies wounded, a number never counted. No
prisoners taken in any warren, although we got a dozen officers and crew from
each ship when we mopped up.

A
major reason why Loonies, mostly unarmed,, were able to kill armed and trained
soldiers lay in fact that a freshly landed earthworm can’t handle himself
well. Our gravity, one-sixth what he is used to, makes all his lifelong
reflexes his enemy. He shoots high without knowing it, is unsteady on feet,
can’t run properly—-feet slide out from under him. Still worse,
those troopers had to fight downwards; they necessarily broke in at upper
levels, then had to go down ramps again and again, to try to capture a city.

And
earthworms don’t know how to go down ramps. Motion isn’t running,
isn’t walking, isn’t flying—is more a controlled dance, with
feet barely touching and simply guiding balance. A Loonie three-year-old does
it without thinking, comes skipping down in a guided fall, toes touching every
few meters.

But
an earthworm new-chums it, finds self “walking on air”—he
struggles, rotates, loses control, winds up at bottom, unhurt but angry.

But
these troopers wound up dead; was on ramps we got them. Those I saw had
mastered trick somewhat, had come down three ramps alive. Nevertheless only a
few snipers at top of ramp landing could fire effectively; those on ramp had
all they could do to stay upright, hang on to weapons, try to reach level below.

Loonies
did not let them. Men and women (and many children) surged up at them, downed
them, killed them with everything from bare hands to their own bayonets. Nor
was I only laser gun around; two of Finn’s men swarmed up on balcony of
Bon Marche and, crouching there, picked off snipers at top of ramp. Nobody told
them to, nobody led them, nobody gave orders; Finn never had chance to control
his half-trained disorderly militia. Fight started, they fought.