1
Polaris AeroSpace Lines
Denver, Colorado
Two hours earlier
Audrey Wilkes could have sworn her watch was running backward. Hadn’t it already been two a.m. an hour ago?
The Omega Speedmaster on her wrist, a feminine version of the classic astronaut model, had been the one indulgence she’d permitted herself when Arthur Hammond hired her away from NASA. From the moment she’d removed it from the box, Audrey had kept it meticulously synchronized with the Naval Observatory’s atomic clock and never took it off, save for her habitual trail runs through the foothills after work.
Night shift in the flight control center threatened to become a permanent fixture of her existence. The boss still wanted his lead flight director on duty during the critical phases of each mission—cruise, she corrected herself—but those always seemed to happen after the sun had gone down. Driven by physics and the needs of their customers, at times it was hard to tell which was the more exacting.
In this case, taking paying passengers into lunar orbit had been a constant balancing act between the two competing needs and her presence was probably the only reason Grant, or even Hammond himself, hadn’t been hovering around the control center in the middle of the night. Which was a real shame, as they usually brought plenty of food for the night crew.
Hammond had practically lived here during the first proving flights into lunar orbit, at least until the Federal Aviation Administration’s new Office of Space Transportation was satisfied that they could reliably run something more than a simple free-return trajectory. That Art had also managed to keep up with the rest of the business throughout all of that FAA micro-management convinced her to stay in Flight Ops. Rocket science was a lot more straightforward.
This trip, however, had become as demanding as all of their previous flights together. A multinational expedition bankrolled by Middle Eastern oil concerns, it was led by a celebrity scientist who’d been keenly interested in surveying the lunar surface from orbit. They were 21st-century prospectors loaded out with optical telescopes, laser interferometers and even a compact magnetic mass driver instead of pans and pickaxes.
It made sense, she thought. As OPEC’s grip on the world’s oil supply weakened, a whole new economy was opening up beyond Earth orbit. And wherever humans went, the need for resources followed. Water and its base elements, oxygen and hydrogen, would be more precious up there than petroleum had ever been down here. And if the Moon held the vast stores of Helium-3 that many believed, the potential for a new clean energy economy would be staggering. Hammond’s engineers wouldn’t be the only ones building landers if that came to pass.
Audrey impatiently tapped a pencil along the edge of her desk as she studied the big wall screens. Behind her, rows of flight controllers and technicians monitored the company’s fleet of suborbital Clippers. Having placed most of the world's major cities within two hour’s reach, the spaceplanes had become as close to routine as they would probably ever be—not that “routine” carried much meaning around here. Art always had another big idea waiting in the wings; she’d decided his life’s goal must have been to amass enough wealth to build all of the fantastic machines he’d imagined since childhood.
Industry pundits had assumed the “Block II” orbital Clippers would be his last venture. Sharing the original model’s same general form, their upgraded engines and external drop tanks allowed regular flights to orbit from the old shuttle landing strip at Cape Canaveral. But instead of ending there, Hammond had sown the profits into his next venture: cruise liners known as “Cyclers” that continually flew on a long-period orbit between Earth and Moon.
The Cyclers were actually less complicated than the Clippers that serviced them. A barrel-shaped inflatable module held enough living space for up to a dozen people. It was capped at either end by docking ports: one was surrounded by a cluster of tanks, antennae, and solar panels. On its own this could host people in orbit for weeks, but when joined with a separate propulsion module it could be pushed out to the Moon. This “flight module” was a fat cylinder of carbon fiber and aluminum festooned with tanks, thrusters, and a bulky cluster of rocket engines at its rear. Its tapered front end featured two large oval windows above a nose-mounted docking port, which made it look for all the world like a hound dog’s snout. It was no coincidence they’d quickly nicknamed the two flight modules Snoopy I and II.
Audrey had been skeptical of sending a big Kevlar balloon full of people off into the void, but enough ground tests with various projectiles fired from a high-pressure cannon finally convinced her the stack could survive several micro-meteor strikes. The first Cycler, Shepard, had been circling back and forth from the Moon for almost a year now with barely a hiccup. Once the second ship, Grissom, had finished its checkouts there would be a constant stream of new travelers coming and going around the Moon.
Her mental meanderings were interrupted by the trajectory officer: “Loss of Signal in five, Aud.”
As “Big Al” fell tail-first around of the Moon, its main engines would slow them down enough to let gravity capture it. Taking a Cycler out of its permanent free return orbit for the first time was eventful enough; that it would all happen after they’d slipped behind the far side and into radio blackout didn’t make it any easier for Audrey to project calm.
“Copy that,” she said, irritated that she’d let her mind wander again. She had to get off the graveyard shift one of these days.
. . .
SS Shepard
Simon Poole had been around the world many times over, though the depths he’d navigated as a submariner had kept him from enjoying much of a view. Or for that matter, most of the world's exotic ports.
His second career as an astronaut made up for it. Similar as spaceflight could be to life aboard his beloved nuke boats, he relished the differences: windows, mainly. Though everyone asked about weightlessness, which had always mystified him: who wouldn’t want to come up here just for the view?
A perk of being Captain was having lots of opportunities to enjoy that view. Besides the flight module’s forward windows, a small observation dome was mounted in the overhead behind them. Its unobstructed view of the entire Earth-Moon system offered a stunning demonstration of the distances they traveled and of the yawning gulf beyond.
Simon stole a glance over the pilot's shoulder to get his bearings before floating up into the dome. The darkened Moon loomed like a hole in the roof of stars, threatening to swallow Earth’s tiny crescent before leaving them in the far side’s shadow.
He turned at a rustling sound beneath him to find a stocky man in a passenger’s jumpsuit. Their lead client was recognizable right away by his neatly trimmed goatee. “Good evening, Dr. Varza. Trouble sleeping again?”
Kamran Varza was uncharacteristically sheepish. “I’m afraid so,” he admitted. “I find it difficult to get used to, and I’m afraid Doctor DeCarlo is too excited for everyone’s sake. He’s forever fretting over his instruments and muttering to himself.”
“Not much we can do about the latter problem, but we stock plenty of sleep aids for the former.” Adjusting to long-term microgravity could be harder than most people expected, and having to deal with someone else’s noise made finding rest that much harder. There was much to be said for having a soft bed in a quiet room at the end of a long day.
“They’re narcotics, if I’m not mistaken?” Varza looked disappointed. “If so, I must decline.”
“Of course, Doctor,” Simon apologized, forgetting his passengers’ strict religious preferences. “My apologies.”
Varza flashed the disarming smile that had become his trademark. “Think nothing of it, Captain. The truth be known, sleep is doubtful. There’s much to be anxious about.”
“No need to worry. We've practiced this several times.” In the simulators, he didn’t add. Worrisome as it could be to fall tail-first past a giant ball of rock at five thousand kilometers per hour, slowing down just enough to get flung into orbit without crashing into the surface, Simon’s bigger fear was getting out of orbit when they were done. With my luck, the engines will work fine the first time and go tits up the second. Which was when it really counted. Otherwise, there would be no return trip home—at least not until they could send the other Cycler out to meet them. And depending on where they were in relation to each other, that trip could easily take a month. The Cycler’s usual “free return” trajectory had ensured there was no way they wouldn’t emerge from blackout.
“I do appreciate your confidence,” Varza said. “But tell me, are you certain it would not be possible to observe from up here? The view is so much better than from my room.”
He was tempted to oblige but their safety rules were strict: no passengers on the control deck during critical phases of flight. “I'm afraid not. This is one of those times when we have to insist everyone buckle down in their cabins.”
Varza almost looked relieved. “Of course,” he said, his eyes studying the control deck. “Why isn’t your entire crew up for this?”
“Mister Brandt is off duty in his quarters.” Either Simon or his First Officer was always at work in the control deck or resting in the crew compartment.
Varza appeared pleased. “Then I shall leave these matters in your capable hands. Good night, Captain.”
Simon nodded politely as Varza flew back into the connecting tunnel. Once the cabin was clear, he floated forward to settle into the observer’s seat behind the pilots. It had been turned into a de facto Captain’s chair, not entirely by accident as Simon had overseen the cabin layout. “Sorry for the distraction, fellas. Have to play nice with the payload.”
“We’d get that a lot on the Clippers,” one said, “but the passengers didn't have as much time in zero-g. Tended to keep their wanderings to a minimum.”
“Hardened cockpit doors didn’t hurt either,” Simon pointed out. He unlocked a flat screen from overhead and rotated it down to face him. “Looks like I’m just in time,” he said, studying the situation display. “Anything change?”
“Negative,” the senior pilot said, not turning away from his own instruments. “Just finished the LOI checklist. Loss of signal in thirty seconds, burn still at plus two minutes.”
Simon grunted his approval as he finished snapping himself into the seat’s four-point harness. He pulled his headset microphone in close and thumbed the intercom switch. “This is the Captain,” he announced quietly, mindful of their light sleepers. “We are two minutes from lunar orbit insertion. You’ll feel mostly normal gravity for about five minutes while we’re braking, so please strap in and secure any loose items in your sleeping berths.”
The copilot finished their final checklist with Denver just as Earth slipped beneath the horizon. Their radio’s reassuring buzz stuttered into silence, their tenuous link to home replaced by an eerie hiss: the background noise of the universe.
Simon tuned out that audible reminder of their isolation, preferring to study the two pilots as they did their jobs. Satisfied that the ship’s orientation was on target, he reached up to kill the volume. The cabin was utterly silent but for the hum of air circulation fans. “You guys mind if I switch to low light?”
“Go for it.”
He flipped a selector switch and turned the cabin from cool blue-white to red, preserving their night vision. As their eyes adjusted, the black sky exploded with stars. One arm of the Milky Way slashed across the void as if it had torn the fabric of the universe, exposing a treasure trove of delicate jewels.
“Nice job, skipper.”
“I can’t take credit for that,” he said, “but you’re welcome anyway.” If the far side was going to cut them off from the rest of humanity, they might as well enjoy the view.
“Retro burn in ten,” the copilot announced.
Simon switched his panel to mirror the pilot’s primary flight display. A computer generated Moon rotated past as they followed a narrow corridor around it. A pulsating dot floated just ahead, a graphic depiction of an empty point in space which represented the culmination of all their efforts. The ship’s big orbital engines fired as they crossed it, pushing them into their seats and filling the ship with the reassuring thunder of properly functioning rockets.
The command pilot had to raise his voice over the new noise. “LOI on target. Nominal chamber pressure and propellant flow—”
Crack.
Simon whipped his head around. He’d long ago become familiar with Big Al’s odd creaks and shimmies, random noises that eventually settled into familiar patterns and could tell a man more about the condition of his vessel than instruments ever could.
This sounded more ominous, like the snap of a tree branch in still woods.
A draft tickled the hair on his arms: air movement.
A bang reverberated up the connecting tunnel. The lead pilot turned, his face a silent alarm as one hand hovered over the throttles. “Not yet,” Simon ordered after a quick mental calculation. “There’s still time until Abort One condition.” He punched the quick-release buckle on his harness and slipped out of his seat, twisting down for the access ladder embedded in the deck.
The draft became noticeably stronger as he approached the tunnel. A klaxon blared to life and the pilot shouted to him over the noise: “Pressurization alarm! Cabin differential's dropping fast!”