The Silent War

HELL CRATER

Pancho always grinned when she thought about Father Maximilian J. Hell, the Jesuit astronomer for whom this thirty-kilometer-wide lunar crater had been named. Wily promoters such as Sam Gunn had capitalized on the name and built a no-holds-barred resort city at Hell Crater, complete with gambling casinos and euphemistically named “honeymoon hotels.”

Astro Corporation had made a fair pocketful of profits from building part of the resort complex. But Pancho wasn’t visiting Hell to check on corporate interests. She had received a message from Amanda to meet her at the medical center there. Mandy’s message had come by a tortuously circuitous route, imbedded in a seemingly innocuous invitation to Selene’s annual Independence Day celebration, sent by none other than Douglas Stavenger.

Ever since the Christmas party Pancho had been trying to see Amanda, to renew the friendship that had come to a screeching halt once Mandy had married Humphries. Amanda replied politely to each of Pancho’s invitations, but somehow always had an excuse to postpone a meeting. Mandy never replied in real time; her messages were always recorded. Pancho studied Amanda’s face each time, searching for some hint of how Mandy was and why she wouldn’t—or, more likely, couldn’t—get away from Humphries long enough to have lunch with an old pal.

So when Stavenger’s video invitation popped up on Pancho’s screen, she was staggered to see his youthful face morph into Amanda’s features. “Please meet me at the Fossel Medical Center, Pancho, next Wednesday at eleven-thirty.”

Then her image winked out and Doug Stavenger’s was smiling at her again. Pancho couldn’t recapture Mandy’s message, either. It was gone completely.

Curiouser and curiouser, Pancho thought as she rode the cable car from Selene. The cable lines were the cheapest and most efficient transportation system on the Moon. Rockets were faster, and there was a regular rocket shuttle between Selene and the growing astronomical observatory complex at Farside. But the cable cars ran up and over the Alphonsus ringwall mountains and out to Copernicus, Hell, and the other budding centers being built on the Moon’s near side. There were even plans afoot to link Selene with the bases being built in the lunar south polar region by cable systems.

A corporate executive of Pancho’s stature could have commandeered a car for herself, or even flown over to Hell in her own rocket hopper. But that wasn’t Pancho’s style. She enjoyed being as inconspicuous as possible, and found it valuable to see what the ordinary residents of Selene—the self-styled Lunatics—were thinking and doing. Besides, she didn’t want to call the attention of Humphries’s ever-present spies to the fact that she was going, literally, to Hell.

So she whizzed along twenty meters above the flat, pockmarked, rock-strewn surface of Mare Nubium, wondering what Amanda was up to. The cable car’s interior was almost exactly like a spacecraft’s passenger cabin, except that Pancho could feel it swaying slightly as she sat in her padded chair. Small windows lined each side of the cabin, and there was a pair of larger curving windows up forward, where tourists or romantics could get a broad view of the barren lunar landscape rushing past. What’d that old astronaut call it? Pancho asked herself. Then she remembered: “Magnificent desolation.”

Those front seats were already taken, so Pancho slouched back in her chair and pulled out her palmcomp. Might’s well get some work done, she told herself. But she couldn’t help staring out at the mountains of the highlands rising beyond the horizon, stark and bare in the harsh unfiltered sunlight.

At last the car popped into the yawning airlock at Hell Crater. Pancho hurried through the reception center and out into the main plaza. The domed plaza was circular, which made it seem bigger than the plaza at Selene. Pancho marveled at the crowds that bustled along the shrubbery-lined walkways: elderly couples, plenty of younger singles, whole families with laughing, excited kids. Most of the tourists were stumbling in the low lunar gravity, even in the weighted boots they had rented. Despite the catastrophes that had smitten Earth, there were still enough people with enough wealth to make Hell a profitable resort.

Shaking her head ruefully as she walked toward the medical center, Pancho thought about how Hotel Luna back at Selene was practically bankrupt. It wasn’t enough to a offer first-rate hotel facility on the Moon, she realized. Not anymore. But give people gambling, prostitution, and recreational drugs and they’ll come up and spend their money. Of course, nobody accepted cash. All financial transactions were computerized, which helped keep everybody reasonably honest. For a modest percentage of the gross, the government of Selene policed the complex and saw to it that visitors got what they paid for, nothing more and nothing less. Even the fundamentalists among Selene’s population appreciated the income that kept their taxes low, although they grumbled about the sinful disgrace of Hell.

As Pancho pushed through the lobby door of the Fossel Medical Center, she immediately saw that the center’s clientele consisted almost entirely of two types: senior citizens with chronic complaints, and very beautiful prostitutes—men as well as women—who were required to have their health checked regularly. Pancho was wearing a well-tailored business suit, but still the “working women” made her feel shabby.

She strode up to the reception center, which was nothing more than a set of flat screens set into the paneling of the curved wall. Pancho picked the screen marked visitors and spoke her name slowly and clearly.

“You are expected in Room 21-A,” said a synthesized voice, while the screen displayed a floor plan with Room 21-A outlined in blinking red. “Follow the red floor lights, please.”

Pancho followed the lights set into the floor tiles and found 21-A without trouble. A couple of security people were in the corridor, a man at one end and a woman at the other, both dressed in ordinary coveralls, both trying to look unobtrusive. HSS flunkies, Pancho guessed.

When she opened the door and stepped into the room, though, she was surprised to see not Amanda, but Doug Stavenger.

“Hello, Pancho,” he said, getting up from the chair on which he’d been sitting. “Sorry for all the cloak and dagger business.”

The room was apparently a waiting area. Small, comfortably upholstered chairs lined its walls. A holowindow displayed a view of the Earth in real time. A second door was set into the back wall.

“I was expecting Mandy,” said Pancho.

“She’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Doug Stavenger’s family had created the original Moonbase, the lunar outpost that eventually grew into the nation of Selene. He had been the leader in Moonbase’s brief, successful war against the old United Nations and their Peacekeeper troops, which established the lunar community’s independence from Earth. Stavenger himself had chosen the name Selene for the fledgling lunar nation.

Although he was fully a generation older than Pancho, Stavenger looked no more than thirty: a handsome, solidly built middleweight whose tawny skin was only a shade lighter than Pancho’s. His body was filled with therapeutic nanomachines that destroyed invading microbes, cleared away fats and arterial plaque, rebuilt his tissues to keep him physically youthful. They had saved his life, twice. Officially Stavenger had been retired for many years, although everyone knew he was still a political power broker in Selene. His influence was even felt in the Asteroid Belt and at the fusion-scooping operation in orbit around Jupiter. But he was exiled from Earth; the worldwide ban on nanotechnology meant that no nation on Earth would allow him within its borders.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Pancho asked as she sat in the chair next to Stavenger.

He hesitated a heartbeat, then replied, “I’ll let Amanda tell you.”

“What’s she here for?”

Stavenger smiled sphinxlike.

If it had been anyone else Pancho would have fumed. She felt her brows knitting. “Some sort of game going on?”

Stavenger’s smile faded. “Some sort, indeed.”

The inner door swung open and Amanda stepped into the room. She was wearing the latest style of baggy blue-gray sweatshirt that stopped short of her rumpled, darker slacks so that her midriff was bare. In keeping with the current fashion, she had an animated decal sprayed around her waist: a procession of colorful elves and trolls, their endless marching powered by Amanda’s body heat. Her golden hair was slightly disheveled. Even though she smiled at Pancho, the expression on her face seemed far less than happy. She looked pale, tense.

Stavenger got to his feet, but Pancho went like a shot to Amanda and wrapped her arms around her and held her close.

“Cripes almighty, Mandy, it’s great to see you.” Without your sumbitch husband between us, Pancho added mentally.

Amanda seemed to understand exactly how Pancho felt. She rested her head on Pancho’s shoulder for a moment and murmured, “It’s good to see you, too, Pancho.”

They disentangled and sat down next to each other. Stavenger pulled a third chair over to sit facing them.

“The room’s clean,” he said. “Whatever we say here won’t go beyond these walls. And all the other waiting rooms along this corridor are unoccupied.”

Pancho realized that the security people out in the hallway were from Selene, not Humphries Space Systems.

“What’s this all about?” she asked.

“I need to tell you something, Pancho,” said Amanda.

“Must be important.”

“Life or death,” Stavenger muttered.

“Martin is planning some sort of move against Astro,” Amanda said. “He’s furious with you, Pancho. He believes you’ve been supplying Lars, helping him to prey on HSS ships.”

“That’s bullshit,” Pancho snapped. “Hell, he’s knocked off three of Astro’s robot freighters in the past month. First one, I thought maybe Lars had done it, but not three.”

“Lars wouldn’t attack your ships, Pancho,” Amanda said.

Stavenger agreed. “There’s something in the wind, that’s for sure. Someone’s pumping money into this new African corporation.”

“Nairobi Industries,” said Pancho. “They’re building a facility at Shackleton Crater, near the south pole.”

“And Martin is backing them?”

“Either Humphries or a third player that’s staying behind the scenes so far,” said Stavenger.

“The Hump’s always planning some sort of move,” Pancho said lightly. “He’s wanted to get his paws on Astro from the git-go.”

“If he gains control of Astro Corporation, he’ll have a monopoly on space operations from here to the Belt. He’ll have the rock rats at his mercy.”

“I think whatever Martin is planning could become violent,” Amanda said. “He’s rebuilding the base on Vesta that Lars destroyed. He’s hiring a small army of mercenary troops.”

Pancho had heard the same from her own intelligence people.

“But why is he going to all that expense?” Stavenger wondered aloud.

“To get control of Astro. To get control of everything,” said Amanda.

“Including Lars,” said Pancho.

“He’s promised not to harm Lars,” Amanda said. Without much conviction, Pancho thought.

“You believe him?”

Amanda looked away for a moment, then said bitterly, “I did once. I don’t anymore.”

Pancho nodded. “Neither do I.”

“I thought we had this all settled eight years ago,” Stavenger said. “You both agreed to stop the fighting.”

“Astro’s lived up the agreement,” Pancho said.

“So has Humphries,” replied Stavenger. “Until now.”

“But why?” Pancho demanded again. “Why start all this crap again? Is he so damn crazy he really wants to be emperor of the whole solar system?”

“It’s Lars,” Amanda said. “He wants to kill Lars. He thinks I still love him.”

“Do you?”

Amanda pressed her lips together tightly. Then she said, “That’s why I’m here.”

“Here? You mean this med center?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand, Mandy.”

She took a deep breath. “The baby I’m carrying is Lars’s, not Martin’s.”

Pancho felt as if someone had punched her in the solar plexus. “Lars’s? How in hell did you—” “We stored frozen zygotes years ago,” said Amanda, “back when Lars and I first went out to the Belt on the old Starpower. We knew we could be exposed to dangerous radiation doses, so we fertilized some of my eggs and stored them at Selene.”

“And now you’ve implanted yourself with one of ’em,” Pancho said, her voice hollow.

Nodding slowly, Amanda said, “Martin thinks I’m carrying his son. But it’s Lars’s.”

“If he finds out he’ll kill you both.”

“That’s why I had it done here. Doug made the arrangements for me, brought together the proper medical personnel, even provided security.”

Pancho glanced at Stavenger with new respect. “That’s one way to spit in Humphries’s eye,” she muttered.

He shrugged. “I did it for Amanda, not to spite Humphries.”

Yeah, sure, Pancho retorted silently.

Aloud, she said, “You’re playin’ with nitroglycerine, Mandy. If Humphries even suspects—”

Amanda silenced her with a flash of her eyes. “He won’t rest until he’s killed Lars,” she said, her voice low but hard, determined. “But even if he does, I’ll bear Lars’s son.”

Pancho let the breath sag out of her.

“It’s the only way I can get back at him,” Amanda said. “The only way I can express my love for Lars.”

“Yeah, but if Humphries even suspects—”

“He won’t,” Stavenger said flatly. “Amanda’s traveled here as part of my team, completely incognito.”

“Only the three of us know about it,” said Amanda.

“What about the medics?”

Stavenger answered, “They don’t know who Amanda is. I fly the team up from Earth and then back again. They don’t stay here.”

“Only the three of us know about it,” Amanda repeated.

Pancho nodded, but she thought about Ben Franklin’s dictum: Three people can keep a secret—if two of them are dead.