Apollo's Outcasts (22 page)

"If that's so," Mr. Porter said, "then we need to prepare ourselves...beginning with letting everyone know what we've learned." He looked at Melissa and me. "Would the two of you mind if we put your sister's message on the colony newsnet? We'll edit out the personal stuff at the beginning, of course, but I think the rest of Apollo needs to hear what she has to say."

"Sure...no problem," I said, and Melissa murmured in agreement.

"Thank you." He drummed his fingers on the table for a moment. "I think the three of you can go now," he added. "Luis and I need to discuss some things in private."

"Certainly." Hannah pushed back her chair. "C'mon, Jamey...you can tell me about the jump you just made."

That was the last thing I wanted to talk about, but Mr. Garcia became interested. "Did you go paragliding today?" he asked as I stood up.

"Umm...yes, sir."

"First big jump?"

"Yes, sir." I felt my face grow warm.

"Well...you're still walking, so that's an achievement. You should try it again."

I didn't know quite what to say, so I nodded. Mr. Garcia gave me a wink, then turned to Mr. Porter. Whatever they wanted to discuss, it wouldn't be while there were kids in the room. So I followed Hannah from the room, with Melissa right behind us.

There was no one to take the three of us back the way we'd come, so I strolled slowly across the back of MainOps, gazing at the massive wall screens. I knew I'd eventually get a chance to leave the crater and walk on the Moon; after all, no one was keeping me a prisoner here.

Okay, so what then? I'd just be doing the same thing as the occasional tourist who paid big money to visit Apollo: put on a moonsuit, hop around, maybe take some pictures. And the rest of the time, I'd spend my days parasailing, sweeping floors, and going to school.

Meanwhile, Jan would be on the run, working for the Resistance while trying to find a way to rescue Dad. The enormity of what they were going up against was utterly terrifying: the entire United States government, with a power-crazy witch as president. No one had to tell me that the odds were against my sister and friends, or that they might lose their lives before it was all over.

What right did I have to be safe while she was in danger? How could I even consider having fun while my sister was fighting for my right to be free?

"Jamey...c'mon." Melissa stepped past me to tug at my arm. "We're not supposed to be here."

I started to follow her toward the door, then stopped. Once we left MainOps, the door would lock behind us; my fingerprints and
retina scans wouldn't open it for us again. If I left, an opportunity would be lost....

"Jamey...!" MeeMee's voice was an anxious whisper, but a few controllers were staring over their shoulders at us. "Let's go!"

Hannah stopped at the door. She turned to look back at me. "You're thinking about Jan, aren't you?" she asked quietly, and I nodded. "You want to do something for her, don't you?"

"Yeah...yeah, I do."

She nodded solemnly. "Then go do it."

Without another word, I pulled my arm from Melissa's grasp, then turned and walked back to the conference room. Mr. Porter and Mr. Garcia were huddled together at the other end of the table. Both looked up in surprise when I came back in.

"Yes, Jamey?" Mr. Porter asked, a little perturbed by my interruption. "What do you...?"

"Mr. Garcia, about Lunar Search and Rescue...the Rangers, I mean." I swallowed. "It's also a defense force, isn't it? For the colony?"

Mr. Garcia slowly nodded. "That's one of our responsibilities, yes. Why do you ask?"

"I want to join...sir."

He said nothing, and neither did Mr. Porter. The two men regarded me with silent appraisal, as if trying to figure out whether I was serious or just acting out of childish impulse. I stood there and stared back at me, trying to ignore the trembling in my knees and the cold sweat seeping down my armpits.

"Search and Rescue isn't just another Colony Service job, Jamey," Mr. Garcia said after a few moments. "It's one of the most dangerous things we do here. If you join, it'll be hard work for you from here on out."

"I...I know that, sir."

"Have you finished Basic yet?"

"No, sir, but I'm nearly through the course."

Mr. Garcia said nothing, but I could tell that he was reluctant to
take on someone who hadn't even stepped outside the dome. "This is Connie Barlowe's son," Mr. Porter said quietly. "Courage runs in their family, I think."

Mr. Garcia nodded but didn't look away from me. "I knew your mother," he said. "She died saving your life. Think you can live up that?"

"I don't know," I said truthfully. "If you'll give me a chance, I'll try."

Mr. Garcia didn't respond. He and Mr. Porter looked at each other again. Neither of them said anything, but Mr. Porter slowly nodded. The Chief Ranger let out his breath, then he turned to me once more.

"Sleep on it," he said. "If you still feel the same way tomorrow, come to my office at 1300 sharp and I'll sign you up for training."

"Thank you, sir," I said.

He shook his head. "Don't thank me yet. Not until you've done your walkabout." Then he waved me toward the door. "Now go. Get out of here before I change my mind."

You know what's the worst thing about wearing a moonsuit?

It's not the weight. Although Ranger gear was a little less bulky than the standard-issue pressure suit I'd worn while earning EVA certification in Basic Lunar Skills, nevertheless it weighed 250 pounds. That was on Earth, though, where it had been made; on the Moon, it was only about 42 pounds...still more than I was used to wearing, but not so much that it felt as if I was going to collapse at any minute.

Nor is it the fact that you're breathing reprocessed air that tastes like it's being fed through an engine filter, or the subtle background hum of the internal electrical system. You get used to these things after a while. It's not even the hassle of putting the thing on. Since the suit is one piece except for the helmet, this involves shimmying feet-first through a small opening behind the hinged life-support pack, then wiggling around until your arms and legs are in the right place. Imagine doing a limbo dance while climbing into a hanging bag and you get the general idea.

Some people say that the biggest nuisance is not being able to scratch your nose through your helmet faceplate, but it wasn't long before I found a solution to that little problem; I'd ignore the itch and think about something else, and pretty soon it would go away. Mind over matter, that's all.

No. The worst thing about wearing a moonsuit is discovering that it can talk to you.

"Hello,"
my suit said to me the first time I put it on.
"My name is Arthur. Pleased to meet you."

The voice that came through the padded earphones of my communications carrier--sometimes called a bonnet, although no one
actually used that term--had a clipped British accent that sounded like it belonged to a London college professor.

I didn't realize at first that the suit was talking to me. Peering through the helmet's wraparound faceplate, I looked around Airlock 7's ready-room. Four Rangers--Nicole, Greg Thomas, Mr. Garcia, and my fellow "provo," Logan--were also getting into their moonsuits, aided by a number of suit technicians. None of them were paying much attention to what I was doing, though, and the person who'd spoken to me clearly wasn't the young woman who'd just latched my helmet in place.

"Excuse me?" I said, searching for the voice's phantom source.

"Not me," my suit tech replied, her voice muffled even though she stood directly in front of me. When I shook my head, she tapped a finger against her ear prong. "Turn on your comlink."

I reached for the row of recessed buttons in the suit's left wrist. It took me a second to remember which one activated the communications system. "I heard someone," I said once the suit tech and I could hear each other. "Some guy who says his name is Arthur."

"That's me,"
Arthur said.

I looked around again, still trying to figure who was speaking. The suit tech grinned; to my left, Nicole and Mr. Garcia shared her amusement. "No, no Arthur here," the technician replied, making an exaggerated effort to search the ready-room as well. "You sure you're not hallucinating?"

"No, I heard him." I was beginning to get annoyed. "Is this some kind of trick?"

"It's not a trick, I assure you."
Arthur's voice was patient, endlessly forgiving.
"You put me on, and I decided it was time to introduce myself. May I ask your name, please?"

"Jamey...Jamey Barlowe."

"Pleased to meet you, Jamey."

I was about to reply when Mr. Garcia's voice cut in.
"That's your suit's associate speaking to you, Jamey. Its personality subroutine is programmed to emulate Sir Arthur C. Clarke, a science fiction author of the 20th century. I requested that this particular suit be assigned to you because Arthur is good with beginners."

Now I understood. My suit was much like my mobil back home; it contained a voice-activated comp that could respond to me much as a living person would, taking instructions given to it in plain English. Not a true artificial intelligence, but rather a clever facsimile. The EVA gear I'd worn during basic training and certification didn't have this feature, but that was because it was the simplified type used by tourists and other people who weren't professional moonwalkers. The moonsuits worn by Lunar Search and Rescue were much more sophisticated, though, so naturally they would have advanced comps.

"Glad to meet you, too, Arthur," I said, feeling rather self-conscious about the whole thing. In all the years I'd ridden my mobil, never once had I felt compelled to give it a name. "Umm...wait a minute. Mr. Garcia, what should I do now?"

A dry chuckle.
"Well, you could always ask him to tell you a story. 'The Nine Billion Names of God' is good. But if you'd like to get on with training, then I'd suggest that you ask him how to prepare to exit the airlock."

"Oh...okay." The suit tech had already stepped around behind me. I felt the rear hatch slam shut, followed by a double-beep signaling that the life-support pack had automatically powered up. If I didn't do something about the air very soon, though, I'd start to suffocate. "Arthur, please begin pressurization."

"Certainly, Jamey."
A faint hiss, then cool air entered the helmet.
"Incidentally, any time you'd like to have me tell you a story, please let me know. I have many I'm sure you'd enjoy."

"Another time, thanks." The suit tech was watching to see what I'd do next, so I followed protocol. "Show me the checklist," I said, and a second later a translucent display appeared on the inside of the faceplate, showing all the suit's major functions.

As I began to run down the checklist, I couldn't help but look over at Logan and Nicole. One of the first rules of moonwalking is that
the buddy system was always observed; no one goes outside without a partner. For this training exercise, Logan and I were partnered with two Rangers Second Class, with the Chief Ranger coming along as our instructor. Logan had asked Nicole if she'd buddy-up with him...and, of course, she'd immediately accepted. I didn't mind partnering with Greg. He was a good guy. But he wasn't Nicole.

Again, I wondered why Logan had decided to join Rangers at the same time I did. A few hours after I was shown Jan's message, it appeared on Apollo's newsnet. As Mr. Porter promised, it had been edited to leave out the personal stuff at the beginning. Nonetheless, it was strange to see my sister appear within the Laglers' holo tank, life-size and looking as if she'd been teleported to their living room. Logan was one of the many people who heard what Jan had to say...and the very next day, when I went down to Lunar Search and Rescue to formally volunteer, I was stunned to find him sitting in Mr. Garcia's office.

Logan told me later that he'd decided to join the Rangers after he'd heard Jan's message, and I didn't doubt that this was true. His reasons were the same as my own: if the fight was coming our way, neither of us wanted to be left out.