Jim Baen's Universe

Introducing: Stories by new authors

New Moon

Written by Mike Barretta

"Neil's dead."

Buzz Aldrin looked across the crisp lunar landscape. An uneven terrain of dust and boulders rolled away from the Lunar Module in gentle undulations. His fatigued eyes scanned the foreshortened horizon. The gunpowder smell of lunar dust, trapped in his suit when he had removed his helmet in the module, burned his nose. With a muttered curse, he bit down on his frustration and anger, bringing it under control. Silently, he damned the machine that had killed him. Buzz stifled the impulse to take a wild careless leap off of the LM.

He pivoted on the Eagle's porch and stepped down the ladder feeling a bit foolish to take such care in these circumstances. He paused after each step, checked his footing, and reaffirmed his grip on the ladder. The pressurized gloves splayed his fingers apart. It was tiring to grasp anything. He repeated the process until the final step into the gray dust. The heavy lunar overshoes lay on their sides at the base of the gold foiled foot pads of the LM. Despite the ferocious magnitude of the cold, he was too tired to retrieve them and it wouldn't matter for much longer anyway. Buzz looked down at the myriad overlapping footprints, each one sharp and perfect. Unless someone came and destroyed the ridges of gray and black shadow they would be there for a millennium.

"I said, Neil is dead."

"We know, Buzz. We're sorry," replied Ron Evans, Capsule Communicator. It took 2.6 seconds for a message to make a round trip. Words were precious. "Okay, Buzz. Ah . . . Do you want to talk to Joan again?"

"No . . . please, no. I've said good bye already. I don't want her to hear anymore. I think we said everything we needed to say." Any more words and he would ruin his final moments like an artist adding one brushstroke too many.

Buzz looked about the Tranquility site, turned away from the ungainly LM and felt disgust at its failure. It should have been the most amazing flying machine conceived. Instead, it would be a grotesque and frighteningly expensive grave marker.

He turned towards Neil's boulder and hop-stepped to it. The half-step, half-hop form of locomotion in one sixth gee felt perfectly natural. From this angle he could see only the dust covered legs of Neil's suit. With his air supply all but exhausted, Neil had sat on the bright side of a boulder and said, "We're screwed, Buzz." Buzz figured those words would become the most famous of the mission. A warm surge of adrenaline filled his chest and stomach. His air was becoming foul.

The Oxygen Purge System threatened to overbalance him. Normally, the OPS would mount on his back above the Portable Life Support System. Buzz wore the OPS strapped across his abdomen in an emergency configuration that he had trained for, though never really expected to perform. When fully charged the OPS carried thirty minutes worth of air. Ten minutes remained of the last air on the moon. He hop-stepped to Neil.

"It's so beautiful, Ron. You should see it. Not a cloud in the sky." He smiled at his joke and imagined how it should have been: a glorious Earthrise bathing the Tranquility landing site, turning dead monochrome into a chiaroscuro of lavender, pale blue, and pink. His feet crunched through pristine dust as if it were a thin coat of ice over snow. "This view and eighteen thousand dollars a year. It just doesn't get any better." He formed the words around fast shallow breaths. His voice sounded weak.

****

"They pay you that much? I'll ask for a raise." Ron looked over at the duty flight surgeon as if he could do something. The flight surgeon, a U.S. Navy Commander, traced his fingers over the medical telemetry. Heart and breathing rate line traces indicated advancing hypoxia.

The flight surgeon covered up his boom microphone with his left hand and said, "Soon."

Ron turned away from him.

"We did our best. We really did. Tom and his engineers tried to find a way." The signal tone beeped again.

"I know. It doesn't matter any more, not without Mike anyway. Is he doing okay?"

"Mike is doing fine, Buzz." Mike Collins orbited until there was insufficient air for the Eagle to make rendezvous. Armstrong ordered the Trans-Earth injection burn and Collins pressed the "proceed" button under protest. Hypergolic fuel exploded into soundless fury and vibration and the Columbia accelerated out of orbit, leaving Neil and Buzz behind.

****

"It hurts to breathe and I have a headache. I feel a little dizzy. I'm gonna sit next to Neil." His fingers tingled. He looked at the seated suit with its gold mirrored visor. "Neil, you bastard," said Buzz, "first man to die on the moon."

Buzz sprawled in the dust next to his Mission Commander. He rested his left hand on Neil's right. The suit's many layers made human contact merely symbolic. A gold olive branch brought from earth lay in the three billion year old dust. He thought of the Lunar samples stowed on the ascent portion of the Lunar Module that would never see Earth. He bet his life for the opportunity to bring back ancient dust and rock, and lost.

With his right hand Buzz pulled up a handful of lifeless lunar regolith. Translucent crystals and shiny metallic blebs sparkled in his hands. He brought his hand to his face and watched it spill from his palm.

"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

"Say again, Buzz. We didn't copy you."

****

His lungs burned and fireflies swarmed his graying vision. His heart raced.

"Tom" he gasped, "Neil and I want to stay here. Okay? Do you hear me, Ron? We talked about it."

"Okay, Buzz. I'll make sure they know. I'm sorry"

"We talked about it. It's okay." Buzz fought panic and thought of his wife and children, warm spring nights, the feel of grass under bare feet. "Not gonna be easy," he gasped weakly. "It's not . . ." He felt an ugly panic rise up and fill his body. He wanted to take the helmet off and breathe crisp lunar air. He wanted to feel summer on the moon.

Buzz forced his hands away from the ring collar. His legs drew involuntarily towards his burning chest. He felt warm tears on his face and thought that odd. He hadn't cried in such a long time. A thin whine escaped from his lips, vision tunneled to a darkening gray cone and the pain in his chest rose to a startling crescendo. His heart pounded, pumping empty blood through his body.

After an eternity, the pain ebbed and Buzz relaxed into the dark. He slumped onto Neil. His eyes fixed open over the magnificently desolate lunar plain. The surface of the moon became a graveyard.

****

Ron Evans looked over at the navy flight surgeon.

The man pulled his headset off and placed it on his console. He wiped the exhaustion from his face and sipped stale water from a softening paper cup. He returned Ron's gaze and said, "It's over."

Ron looked away.

No, Buzz, it's not easy. It never is. Ron mimicked the flight surgeon and wiped fatigue from his face with a brief brush of his hands. Air conditioning kept the Texas heat at bay. Chilled fingers rasped over a forty-eight hour old beard. Mission control was nowhere near as cold as the surface of the moon.

Ron pulled his headset off and dropped it to the floor with a clatter. The Lunar Module's signal beeped forlornly. It would continue to do so until the battery died.

The flight surgeon stood up from his console and stepped towards Ron, leaving one set of active traces behind. "Ron? You okay?"

"Back to your station. Mind your console. I'm fine. Thanks."

The flight surgeon wiped his black plastic framed glasses with a folded linen handkerchief and sat back down.

Ron tried to drown out the echo of Buzz Aldrin's dying gasps. He bent over and picked up his headset. He untwisted the cable and swung the boom mike away from his mouth as he set it back on his head. "Oh, sweet Jesus, we killed them. Forgive us."

He looked over the ranks of men, uniformed in rumpled white short-sleeved shirts, dark ties, and near military haircuts. "People."

They turned to look at him. "People, we still have a man out there. He's a long way from home and we need to bring him back." He consulted the mission clock. "Turnover is at the top of the hour with your counterparts. Thank you for staying."

The defeated LM launch team began the turnover process with the Trans-Earth team. Gene Kranz talked quietly with some high level observers in the gallery. The observers had clustered into tight little knots no longer paying any attention to the mission control room. The drama was over, all that remained was details. Air conditioning and fluorescents hummed and only necessary voices spoke.

****

"I copy, Houston." Mike Collins breathed slowly and deliberately, each breath sacred and fragile. His private terror had been realized. Zero-G tears filled his eyes and blurred his vision, refusing to roll down his stubbled cheeks.

A vicious headache, compounded by dry sinuses, throbbed behind his eyes. He opened a foil packet of aspirin and swallowed the bitter medicine with a sip of warm water. The foil spun like a silver snowflake till he captured and stowed it.

Every two hours of his twenty-two hour orbit of the moon he searched the shadowed Sea of Tranquility with the twenty-eight power sextant. He thought that if he could only see the fragile craft he could make it launch by force of will alone. Neil described the area and Houston provided rough landing site coordinates but Columbia flew far too fast and high.

After the Trans-Earth injection, Mike checked and rechecked the course correction calculations. Satisfied with their accuracy, he retreated into silence. Houston's attempts at light conversation were met by clipped affirmatives or negatives. The cramped Command Module's silence was as vast as an empty cathedral. Mike Collins closed his eyes and listened to the hum of the air circulation fans. The cabin flashed with reflected sunlight synchronous with the CSM's slow thermal control roll.

At 190,000 miles from Earth, Michael Collins dreamed of towering craggy peaks and sleek silver finned spaceships. He dreamed of brilliant flashes of light from the Aristarchus plateau and an overwhelming sense of wonder. Ghosts reclined in the seats next to him. Michael Collins, so far from home, was the loneliest man in the universe.

****

Tom Kelly, principal designer of the Lunar Module, hung his head and placed the black plastic phone receiver back onto the dialed cradle. Mike Collins had left lunar orbit, any more launch attempts would be pointless. Tom examined his conscience and did not feel fear. An investigation would find nothing negligent. A circuit completed, bolts fired, valves opened, and pressurized hypergolic fuels flowed through injectors to the engine bell to ignite on contact. 3,500 lbs of thrust should have lifted the ascent portion of the module to a graceful rendezvous.

The design was robust and reliable. Somehow, the fuel never made it to the engine bell and he could not figure out why. Perhaps it was ice plugs in the lines, cold welding of the valves, lunar dust fouling the electronics or perhaps punishment for sheer hubris that prevented the launch.

He swept the pile of technical schematics off his desk and began to write a letter of apology and resignation. He thought about a delicate gold and silver module guarding lunar graves for an eternity. His army of engineers sorted through reams of schematics and he thought briefly to tell them to stop looking. The solution had evaded him. He searched for a reason.

****

Steven turned on the television to catch the news. Asbestos fibers from the brake pad assembly line fell from his coveralls. He paced back to the kitchen to get a beer while the set warmed up. The spring on the kitchen screen door creaked and Jeremy joined him in the kitchen. The door slammed shut and Steven winced. Steven frowned at his son but said nothing. Sweaty hair clung to Jeremy's face. Steven smiled, forgetting the slammed door.

"Hey kiddo. Where's mom?"

"Hey Dad, store," said Jeremy.

Steven, cued by Walter Cronkite's voice, walked back to the television. He didn't want to see the mess his son was about to make. Steven Owens settled into the couch and listened to his son clanging silverware in the kitchen.

The grainy image of Walter Cronkite focused out of the ether and reported that Neil Armstrong and Edwin "Buzz" Aldrin, after multiple attempts to launch from the surface of the moon, died July 22, 1969 at 4:45 and 5:17 Eastern Daylight Time respectively. Steven Owens looked over his shoulder at his son. Jeremy stood at the threshold of the living room not daring to drop crumbs on the living room carpet.

"I'm sorry, Jeremy. I really am," Steven said. Tears filled his brown eyes. He squeezed them shut and wiped them with thumb and forefinger. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damn allergies."

Jeremy swallowed and gave his father a confused look. "Sorry for what, Dad?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it." Steven Owens stood and brushed stubborn asbestos fibers from his khaki coveralls. He bent to pick up the orange crate next to his recliner. It contained his entire collection of Astounding Stories and Amazing. He brushed past Jeremy and brought them outside through the creaking kitchen screen door. The door slammed on its spring without a restraining hand.

"Hey Jeremy, I'm gonna take a walk around the block, clear the head a bit," Steven yelled from the back door. Put some things into perspective. Get practical.

"Tell your mom if she gets back before I do, okay," he yelled again.

****

"Okay Dad." The last bit of Jeremy's sandwich vanished in a single bite.

Walter Cronkite talked and pointed to a model of the Lunar Module on his desk. Jeremy walked to the front door and stepped through in time to see his father round the corner. With his Dad out of sight, he ran around the house to the garbage can by the back door.

He removed the lid and let it fall on the concrete drive, then hauled out his Dad's magazines and set them on the concrete drive. He replaced the lid and picked up the stack of magazines. Popular Mechanics and Reader's Digest camouflaged the Astoundings and Amazings.

Jeremy waddled under the weight of magazines to the loft stairs behind the detached garage. The rain softened stairs, slick with algae and furry moss, sagged with each step. He set the box down to open the door that was never locked. He picked the box up and walked through the doorway and kicked it closed.

Dry dust motes danced in the evening light streaming through the window overlooking the driveway. He carried the crate through the motes, setting them spinning furiously in his wake. He set the crate down in the small space carved out from amongst items too old to use yet too good to give away. He sat, pulled each magazine out and studied the cover pictures. Popular Mechanics went in the keeper pile; Reader's Digests were tossed aside.

He picked one Astounding out at random and gazed at its garish cover. A razor edged flying saucer shot death-beams into a city of impossibly tall blue, red, and green towers. An orange suspension bridge melted under the assault. A dark-haired square-jawed man with a fishbowl over his head clutched a ray gun in his right hand and a wilting woman in his left. A diaphanous gown outlined her breasts perfectly. The gauzy material clung perilously to her shoulder. If the man took another step it would pull right off her body. It looked like the man was going to take a lot of steps.

Intrigued, Jeremy leafed through the magazine. He stopped at a story called "Starsmashers of Mars". He read alone, dust whorls spinning like galaxies above his head.

****

William Safire waited for the President to get off the phone.

Nixon frowned, said thank you, and hung up the private line. "Do you have something for me, Bill?"

"Yes, Mr. President." William Safire handed the folder across the President's desk and took a seat uninvited.

Nixon opened the manila folder and read silently for a few moments. He looked up at Bill. "When did you prepare this speech?"

"Before they launched. I though it prudent to address all contingencies."

"Bad luck," said Nixon.

"I've outlined some notes on the last page. Some things we should do before the press conference."

Nixon slid the folder across the desk. "No changes, Bill. I like it. On your way out, ask Bob Haldeman to come in. I need to arrange a meeting with Paine."

"Yes, sir. I'll send Bob in." Safire rose from the stuffed chair, spun on his heels, and departed without comment. The door shut silently.

As he walked back to his office, Safire sketched the speech that would end Apollo. An immense amount of political and industrial inertia would grind the project on for a few more years, enough to get to the moon in 71 or 72, but without any long term backing, Apollo would be little more than a withering technical achievement.

****

Alone, Richard Nixon spun the chair away from his desk and gazed out over the lawn. He wondered how the situation would play out. After a string of successes, the first attempt at landing men on the moon had failed. Cobbling together a new policy direction would be difficult. Apollo was to have been, at best, a modest feather in his cap, at worst, a neutral national accomplishment. Currently, it appeared to be a liability.

He kept Kennedy's program going out of a perverse degree of respect for the slain President's promise to the nation. With the monetary drain imposed by the Vietnam War straining the nation's wealth and patience, luxury items like NASA were difficult to justify. Too bad, he thought. He really loved those astronauts. He waited for his Chief of Staff.

****

"Five minute warning, five minutes." Technicians continued to adjust the televising equipment. Nixon's tirades at any technical difficulty were infamous. A makeup technician powdered his forehead gently. Nixon smiled at the pretty blonde. The chief of staff hired her, knowing that the President would give her a minimum of grief. What man could complain about a pretty woman's touch?

"One minute. One minute." Unnecessary personnel shepherded themselves out of the Oval Office, much to the Secret Service's delight. The harried agents watched carefully.

"Ten seconds, Mister President. Eight, seven, six, five, four." The technician pantomimed the remaining three seconds decrementing his fingers to zero. At zero he pointed to the President and then to the big camera indicator light. He whispered, "You're