Ben Bova - Moonwar

“Very funny.”

“The first American astronaut on Mars was black.”

“Big deal.”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Okay. Good advice. I’ll do that,” he mumbled.

Liebowitz glared at him like a disappointed mother. “You really tried to kill him?”

“I slit his throat. All right? Is that what you wanted to hear? My fuckin’ confession?”

He said it loudly enough so that people at the nearest tables turned to stare at him.

“What I want to hear,” Liebowitz said, her voice low, “is where you’re going from here.”

“Straight to hell,” Gordette said.

“So you’re going to isolate yourself, build a wall and not let anybody near you.”

He pointed to the ring of empty tables around them. “You see anybody trying to make friends with me?”

“I am,” she said.

He blinked, uncomprehending.

“I’m having lunch with you, aren’t I?” Liebowitz said. “Maybe you can tell me the story of your life and make me believe that you’re something more than just a hired killer.”

Arrrrrrrrrrrgggh and no arrivals of lunar cargo carriers. The manufacturing facility had shut down for lack of raw materials. No lunar transfer vehicles needed maintenance or repair; they were all hanging silent and useless in weightless geodesic cocoons that protected them from incoming radiation and the occasional meteoroids that peppered cislunar space. The tourist hotel was still running, but its business had dropped sharply since the war against Moonbase had started.

Jill Meyers gazed sadly through an observation port in the hotel module. She had helped to build Masterson, back in the days when she’d been a government astronaut. She was accustomed to seeing spacesuited figures bustling from module to module, jetting along in solo maneuvering units or riding the bare-bones shuttlecraft called broomsticks. But now the whole region was quiet, empty. This war was costing Masterson Corporation millions of dollars per day, and even though the U.N. promised reparations, Meyers knew that nothing could repay time lost, careers interrupted.

“There you are!”

Jill turned from the circular glassteel observation port to see Edan McGrath standing in the hatch. His sizable bulk almost filled the hatchway, the lighting from the central corridor silhouetting him dramatically.

“You finally got here,” Meyers said, taking a step toward him.

“I’ve been looking all over this tin can for you,” he replied gruffly. “Come on, let’s eat. I haven’t had a bite since breakfast.”

The hotel’s restaurant was nearly empty. Only two other couples sitting at the elegant tables, and a family of four off in the farthest corner, where the children wouldn’t annoy other diners. They’ve got more waiters than customers, Meyers noticed as she scanned the richly-decorated room. Windowall screens displayed astronomical scenes, glorious interstellar nebulas glowing delicate pink and electric blue. Meyers realized that real windows would have shown the scenery outside spinning lazily; not the most soothing background for flatland tourists to eat and drink by.

McGrath had ordered champagne. They clinked their fluted glasses and toasted each other’s health. Meyers had dressed in comfortable tan slacks and a loose blouse embroidered with flowers. McGrath wore a bulky white turtleneck sweater over jeans that looked stiffly new.

With a lopsided grin on his beefy face, McGrath asked, “Do you come here often?”

It was a corny line and they both knew it.

Meyers laughed politely. “I used to, in the old days.”

“I understand you were quite a hell-raiser back then,” he said.

Her smile turned reminiscent. “Back then,” she murmured.

The waiter brought them oversized menus. McGrath ordered three courses and more wine, Meyers only a salad.

“Okay,” he said, after the waiter had left, “you asked me to meet you here. What’s up?”

Meyers looked into his pale blue eyes. “Edan, you know that if I were still in the Senate I’d be raising all kinds of hell about this war against Moonbase.”

“I’d hardly call it a war,” he said.

“That’s what your network calls it.”

McGrath shrugged. “That’s show business, Jill. You know how it is.”

“I need your help to put pressure on the President,” she said.

His brows rose slightly. “I thought you were on her side. You’re the same party—”

“Not on this,” Meyers snapped. “I’ve never been a blind supporter of the New Morality and she knows it. She named me to the World Court to get me out of the Senate because she knew I’d raise hell about going after Moonbase.”

“Why don’t you raise hell now? I’d give you all the air time you want.”

“I can’t,” Meyers said, shaking her head. “As a judge in the International Court of Justice I’ve got to stay strictly out of politics.”

With a laugh, McGrath asked, “What you’re doing now isn’t politics?”

“This is private, just between you and me.”

“And Global News and the White House,” he added.

Meyers gave him a disdainful look. “You know what I mean, Edan.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “But what more can I do? Global’s been airing Edie Elgin’s reports from Moonbase. Faure’s pissed as hell with me over that.”

“You could start by showing what a ghost town this space station has become,” Meyers said. “American jobs are down the tubes because of Faure.”

“And the New Morality’s insistence that the nanotech treaty be enforced even on the Moon.”

“Right.”

“You want me to take on the New Morality?”

She hesitated, studying the expression on his face. McGrath had been handsome before he’d let himself start going to fat. He still looked pretty good. But is he strong enough? Meyers wondered.

Carefully, she said, “I want you to show the American public—the world public, really—how much this war against Moonbase is really costing.”

The waiter brought McGrath’s first course. Once he left, McGrath lifted his soup spoon, but instead of digging in he jabbed it in Meyers’ direction.

“You know,” he said, “There’s nothing like a really good controversy to boost ratings.”

Meyers grinned at him.

“What on Earth are you doing?” Claire Rossi blurted.

Nick O’Malley was dragging a bulky container into their one-room quarters. It looked like an oversized piece of soft-sided luggage, and it made their little compartment crowded.

“Emergency procedure,” O’Malley said, pushing the container into the corner between the bunk and the desk. Still it took up almost half the floorspace.

Rossi watched impatiently as her husband knelt on one knee and began to rip open the Velcro seams of the container. She leaned over his broad shoulder and looked inside.

“A spacesuit!”

“Right,” O’Malley said. “I’m going to show you how to get into it, in case you need to while I’m not here.”

“Why would I—oh.”

As he hauled the torso and leggings of the suit out and spread them on the bunk, O’Malley said, “When the attack comes we might lose air pressure. This gadget here will yowl when the pressure drops below a safe minimum.”

He put a small gray box on the shelf carved into the stone wall above the bunk.

“When you hear this go off, you get into the suit as fast as you can. Here, I’ll show you how.”

“But suppose I’m in the personnel office when it happens?” she asked.

O’Malley shook his head. “When the Peacekeepers start their attack everybody not on essential duty will go to their quarters. That’s orders from management.”