Ben Bova - Moonwar

“Kloodges,” Edith repeated.

Doug demanded, “Can you put it all together by the end of this week?”

“We have to test—”

“We don’t have time for testing!” Doug said sharply. “Get the hardware together, make it functional. You can test it after it’s completely assembled, if the Peacekeepers give us enough time.”

Wicksen’s big eyes widened even further. “You’d hang the survival of this base on untested equipment?”

“If it doesn’t work, we’re dead anyway,” Doug pointed out. “Right?”

The physicist thought it over for a moment, his big tarsier’s eyes staring at Doug. At last he admitted, “Right.”

“Wait a minute,” Anson said, from behind her desk. “Wix, will you have enough time to rig the control system so you can operate the beam gun from inside, here?”

“No. We’ll have to run it manually, out there at the mass driver.”

“In suits,” said Vince Falcone.

Wicksen nodded solemnly.

“With a nuclear warhead coming at you,” Falcone added.

Another grave nod.

Anson said, “So if the beam gun doesn’t work you and your people get fried by the nuke.”

“That’s right,” Wicksen said slowly. “We’ll be operating an untested apparatus, in the open, in surface suits, and if it doesn’t work the first time we’ll all be toast.”

All eyes turned to Doug.

“The alternative is to let the Peacekeepers nuke our solar farms,” he said. But he was thinking, I can’t force Wix and his people to go out there under the gun. I can’t order him to do it.

Wicksen smiled a strange, enigmatic smile. “Well… I can see that we’ll have to make the apparatus work the first time.” He pushed his chair back from the table. “I’d better get back to the workshop. We have a lot to do and not much time to do it.”

The others watched him walk out of the office and slide the door shut softly behind him.

Anson shook her head. “The Japs aren’t the only ones who’ve got kamikazes.”

Falcone, his swarthy face set in a scowl, said to Doug, “You’re gonna let him go out on a suicide job?”

“Do you see any alternatives?” Doug returned, forcing himself to sound much firmer than he felt.

Before Falcone could answer, Doug added, “Except surrender?”

“Okay, Wix has made his decision,” Anson said. “Let’s move on.”

Gratefully, Doug turned to Zimmerman. “Professor, what have you cooked up for us?”

“Nothing,” said Zimmerman flatly.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing that can be ready in a week.”

Doug turned to Cardenas. “Kris?”

“We’re ready to inject therapeutic nanomachines into anyone who’ll accept them. After your recent experience,” she glanced inadvertently at Gordette, “lots of people have come to realize that nanomachines can be extremely helpful to them, healthwise.”

“Good,” said Doug.

“But there’s a downside, too,” Cardenas added, raising a warning finger. “Most of the people here intend to return Earthside, sooner or later. They’re scared of trouble down there if they’re carrying nanomachines in them.”

Doug slumped back in his squeaking little plastic chair. “So what’s the bottom line, Kris?”

“Most of our people refuse to be injected. But we’re ready for emergency nanotherapy for people who’re hurt or wounded.”

The stupid fools, Doug thought. Then he realized his own fears of returning Earthside, where nanoluddite assassins waited. Like Killifer. Like the fanatics who murdered anyone who publicly espoused nanotechnology.

“Okay,” he said wearily. “I assume you’re working with the medical staff.”

Cardenas grinned. “All three of ’em.”

Neither Debbie Paine nor Harry Clemens had anything useful for Moonbase’s defense. By the time Doug reached Vince Falcone, though, the burly, swarthy engineer had a knowing glint in his eyes.

“I been thinking,” Falcone said.

“I thought I smelled wood burning,” quipped Clemens.

“They’ll be comin’ over Wodjo Pass, right?” Falcone asked rhetorically.

Doug looked over at Gordette, who nodded warily.

“Maybe we can block the pass,” said Falcone.

“Block it?”

“Sure. You know the foamgel we use for insulation and whatnot? Smart hydrogel is what it is. Expands or shrinks, depending on how you set it up.”

Doug remembered that foamgel had been used on his sabotaged spacesuit. He glanced over at Gordette again; Bam was staring at him with unwavering eyes.

Falcone was grinning now with self-satisfaction. “Suppose we spray a ton or so of the glop along Wodjo Pass, see? The Peacekeepers are coming across the pass in tractors, right? When they’re in the middle of the pass we radiate the gel with microwaves from the antennas on Mount Yeager.”

“And the gel swells up to a couple hundred times its original size!” Anson said eagerly.

“You got it,” said Falcone. “Their tractors are caught in the glop like flies in a spiderweb. Like trucks stuck in deep mud.”

“You can stop their tractors?” Doug asked. It was the first piece of good news he’d heard.

Still grinning, Falcone said, “I think so.”

“But couldn’t the troopers get out and walk across the foam?” Debbie Paine asked. “It hardens like concrete, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Falcone admitted.

Doug turned to Gordette. “Bam, what do you think?”

The room fell utterly, uncomfortably silent.

Gordette spoke up, “Even if they can get out and walk to the crater floor, they’d have to leave most of their heavy equipment behind, in the tractors.”

“Heavy equipment?” Clemens asked.

“Missile launchers,” said Gordette. “Artillery. Ammunition cases. They could only bring what the troopers could carry. That’s a big advantage to us.”

“Can you produce that much foamgel in a few days?” Doug asked.

Falcone scratched at his stubbly chin. “We got some in inventory already… I’ll get the chem lab to turn out as much as they can.”

“But will it be enough?”

“Dunno,” Falcone answered. Then he brightened. “Wait a minute,” he said, looking excited. “It could get even better.”

“What?”

“If we can divert enough power from the solar farms to the microwave antennas on Yeager—”

“Assuming Wix’s beam gun works and the farms aren’t nuked,” Anson interjected.

“Yeah, yeah,” Falcone said impatiently. “Anyway, gimme enough power for the microwave transmitters and we can fry the Peacekeeper troops while they’re still up in the pass.”

Doug felt his brows knitting. “What’re you saying, Vince?”

“The troops’ll be in suits, right? Lotsa metal in their suits. A microwave beam of sufficient strength’ll heat up the metal, even penetrate the suits and cook the guys inside!”

Anson nearly came up out of her chair. “You can wipe ’em out up there in the pass before they ever get near us!”

“No!” shouted Edith.

Surprised, Doug turned toward her.

“No, you can’t do that,” Edith said, her face set with determination.

“Whattaya mean we can’t?” Falcone snapped. “I haven’t gone through the numbers but I’m willing to bet—”

“You mustn’t kill any of them,” Edith said.

“Mustn’t kill…?”

“How can we fight ’em if we can’t kill ’em?”

Edith edged forward slightly in her seat. “The worst thing you can do, the absolute worst, is to kill any of the Peacekeepers.”

Doug realized what she was driving at. “Captain Munasinghe,” he muttered.

“Right. Faure tried to make a martyr out of him, tried to use him to work up public opinion against you.”