Энди Вейр - Artemis

“What’s the illegal part?” he asked.

I gave him a hurt look. “Why would you assume there’s—”

“What’s the illegal part?” he repeated.

“Her apartment’s in Armstrong up against the inner hull. I have to weld the shelter directly to it. The city requires all sorts of extra inspections if you weld to the inner hull and she can’t afford them.”

“Hmf,” he said. “Pointless bureaucracy. Even the most rank amateur couldn’t damage a six-centimeter plate of aluminum.”

“I know, right?!” I said.

He folded his arms and frowned. “Darned city getting in the way of business…”

“Preach.”

“All right. Take what you want. But you have to reimburse me for the acetylene and neon.”

“Right, of course,” I said.

“You all right? You look kind of pale.”

I was about ready to puke. Lying to Dad transported me back to my teen years. And let me tell you: there’s no one I hate more than teenage Jazz Bashara. That stupid bitch made every bad decision a stupid bitch could make. She’s responsible for where I am today.

“I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

Dear Jazz,

I got a big poster of the Roosa for my birthday. What a magnificent ship! It’s the largest spaceliner ever built! It can hold up to two hundred passengers! I’m learning all about it. I’m a little obsessed, but who cares? It’s fun.

The ship is a marvel! It has full centripetal gravity, with a radius large enough that no one will get dizzy. It even helps people adjust to lunar gravity! They gradually slow the rotation over the seven-day trip to the moon. So when people first board, the passenger decks are at 1 g, and by the time they reach the moon, they’re at ⅙th g. They do the reverse on the way back to get folks accustomed to 1 g again. How cool is that?

I still don’t understand the “Uphoff-Crouch Cycler Orbit,” though. I get that it’s a ballistic orbit that goes back and forth between the Earth and the moon, but it’s really weird. It’s like… start at Earth, then it’s at the moon seven days later, then it flings up way out of the Earth–moon plane and comes back to the moon fourteen days later… somewhere in there it just sits in an elliptical orbit around Earth for a couple of weeks… I don’t get it. And I won’t try. Point is, it’s an awesome ship.

Someday, when I’m a rich rocket designer, I’m going to visit Artemis. We can have tea.

Hey, when you and your dad moved to Artemis, did you go there on the Roosa ?

Dear Kelvin,

Nah, the Roosa hadn’t been built yet when we moved here. We came over on the Collins , the only spaceliner that existed at the time. It was ten years ago (I was only six), so I don’t remember all the details. But I remember we didn’t have artificial gravity. It was zero-G everywhere. I had a shitload of fun bouncing around!

You got me curious about the orbit stuff, so I looked it up. It seems pretty straightforward. The ship goes through a cycle with each step taking seven days: Earth -> Moon -> (deep space out of Earth–moon plane) -> Moon -> Earth -> (deep space in the Earth–moon plane) -> Earth. And it repeats that over and over. If the moon stood still they could just go back and forth, but it’s moving around Earth once per month, which complicates the hell out of the cycler.

I looked up the math behind how orbits work and then checked their numbers against those equations. It was pretty simple, you can do it in your head.

Dear Jazz,

Maybe you can do it in your head. I would give anything to be as smart as you. But I’m not. That’s okay. I work hard instead, and you’re lazy as hell.

Dear Kelvin,

How dare you call me lazy! I’d come up with a scathing retort but, meh, I’m just not motivated.

Hey, I need advice. Edgar and I are going on our fourth date. We’ve been making out a lot (just kissing, nothing else). I want to escalate, but I don’t want to move too fast—I’m not ready to get naked yet. Any recommendations?

Dear Jazz,

Boobs.

Dear Kelvin,

Seriously? That simple?

Dear Jazz,

Yes.

The next morning, I woke up naked in a plush, comfortable bed.

No, there wasn’t anyone with me. Get your mind out of the gutter. I just wanted to get a taste of what life would be like once I got that million slugs.

I stretched out my arms and arched my back. What a fantastic night’s sleep!

Unlike my shitty coffin, this room had excellent noise insulation. No neighbors waking me up with screaming arguments or loud sex. No booming hallway conversations bleeding in. No drunk idiots stumbling into walls.

And the bed! I could lie across it width-wise and still fit! Plus the sheets and blankets were softer than velvet. The bedding felt better against my skin than my own pajamas.

The room cost 2,000ğ a night. When I got my payday from Trond, I’d get a bed like this in my beautiful noise-proof apartment.

I checked my Gizmo. Eleven in the morning?! Wow, I really slept!

I slid out of the warm sheets and walked over to the bathroom—the private bathroom. No robe, no dudes checking me out in the hall, just me and my bladder headed to take care of business in peace.

I went through my morning ritual, including an extra-long shower. Private shower—another thing for my list of future amenities. Water’s expensive in Artemis, but it’s not like we throw it away. It’s a closed system, so what you really pay for is water purification. The hotel room had a graywater-reuse shower. The first twenty liters were fresh water (that lasted about three minutes). After that, it reheated your used water and gave it back to you. You could be in there as long as you wanted and you’d only use twenty liters. Important note: Do not pee in a graywater-reuse shower.

I threw on an insanely comfortable terrycloth robe and wrapped my hair in a towel-turban.

Time to work on the next step of my evil plan. This time I didn’t need to do any research. I just needed to brainstorm. I lay back on the Bed Jazz Never Wanted to Leave and let my mind wander.

The problem: How would I get out of the city?

Airlocks won’t obey commands from non–EVA Guild members. There’s a good reason for that. The last thing you want is some untrained dipshit playing around with airlock controls. A misused airlock is a fast and efficient way to kill everyone in a bubble.

So, to use an airlock control panel, you have to wave your Gizmo over it. It verifies that you’re part of the guild. It’s a simple idiot-proofing scheme that’s very effective. But no idiot-proofing can overcome a determined idiot. There’s a flaw in the system.

For safety reasons, airlocks don’t have security on their outer doors. If you’re in a leaky EVA suit and scrambling to safety, the last thing you want to see is “VERIFYING AUTHORIZATION….” I just needed someone to operate the controls from the outside. Someone… or something.

I left the hotel room because the front desk called to say I had to check out or they’d charge me for another night. Then I drove Trigger to Armstrong Down 4. Or, as the locals called it, Little Hungary. The Hungarians owned all the metalworking shops. Just like the Vietnamese owned Life Support and Saudis owned welding.

I pulled up next to the workshop of Dad’s colleague Zsóka Stróbl, who was apparently named during a severe vowel famine. She was a pressure-vessel specialist. When Dad got a contract to install an air shelter, he usually bought one from Zsóka. She made high-quality product and Dad’s all about quality.