Riddled Space Read online

  Things moved rapidly after that. There were some volatiles, to be certain, methane and some traces of water. But the real treasure was the black, tarry crust, almost like asphalt, that comprised the bulk of the impacted material. Ground, burned, and the exhaust gas fed into the olivine reaction chambers, the resultant carbon dioxide sped up the entire process. Instead of being the limiting factor, the excess carbon dioxide, along with other gasses from the mined meteoroid, fed back into the recycling system, further enhanced the growth of algae and other plants. Fresh vegetables made an appearance at the mess hall, to the delight of the crew.

  ***

  “Carbon means steel, Horst,” said McCrary later. “Iron by itself makes bad tanks and worse lineac hoops. Iron's too brittle, sudden stress cracks the hoop. Next load through shatters them. That's why lineac's so long. Longer run, less stress. Replace 'em with steel hoops, same length, we can use more power, deliver packages to Mars.”

  “The carrier sled needs any steel first, sir,” said Horst. “We think it's starting to crack already.”

  “Get on it, first batch we certify,” said McCrary.

  It was amazing what a tightly controlled production environment, a near unlimited source of heat, and a bunch of metallurgists back on Earth could do. In what seemed like no time, the steel foundry of the Moon was up and running. The lineac iron hoops were replaced with steel ones. If the new aluminum wire was not as good as copper could be, at least it was better than the iron wire that was the only thing locally available. Simple fiberglass tarps, made from the excess silicon dioxide sand the process generated, shielded the hoops from the sun. Hoops in the shadow cooled enough that running LOX through them substantially lowered their electrical resistance, with an enormous savings in efficiency.

  The new and improved Works rose like a phoenix from the wreckage of the old. Nothing was wasted. From the input of rock, heat, and asteroidal tar, out came steel, aluminum, magnesium, and torrents of oxygen. Silicon was used both as the base element, to make solar cells, as well as its oxide, which could be formed into products as diverse as glassware, reentry tiles, or aerogel. Lunar-derived fiberglass was soon everywhere insulation was needed.

  ***

  Commander Jeng Wo Lee was impressed with the sheer quantity of wealth available in the rock of the moon. “And they don't do this on Earth?” he asked McCrary during a visit to the Engineering section.

  “Too many better, cheaper ways,” he drawled. “We use what we must, but we have one thing they don't—two weeks of pure sun.”

  “Nothing like unlimited heat. I understand you have something to show me.”

  “Over here,” McCrary motioned, leading the commander to a side room where he pointed to a seven-foot tall shape covered with a spun-glass cloth. “Now, we finally earn our keep.” With no ceremony, he slipped the cover from the mass.

  The first impression was a tank sitting on a bell. And there wasn't very much leftover to change that impression. With another tug on a second tarp a second tank, this time lying on a bench, emerged.

  “These look a lot like the tanks we're sending to the Chaffee,” said Commander Jeng.

  “Same function, different form,” replied McCrary. “These have an engine. Tank is two meters long, one meter in diameter. Second tank just below main tank. This is special.” He pointed to a simple compartment between the first and second tanks.

  Commander Jeng looked puzzled. “But the only thing we have is oxygen. No hydrogen. Certainly no hydrocarbons to waste on propulsion. How does the engine work?”

  “You have Jimmy Fields to thank for that. He realized that the only thing we can burn here is metal – aluminum or magnesium. Take powdered magnesium, stuff it in the combustion chamber with a lot of liquid oxygen. The magnesium burns very hot, vaporizes the oxygen it doesn't consume, and that provides the stream of hot gas we need for thrust.” McCrary got wordy, as he often did when he discussed engineering. “It's terrible as far as efficiency is concerned, and we've had issues with reliable ignition and thrust control, but it has one advantage – we can make it here.”

  “Everything?” asked Commander Jeng. “Nothing imported?”

  “Oh, some electronic controls, but we're going to be able to make those soon enough.” McCrary grinned. “It gets better. The liquid oxygen pump is used for filling and draining the main tank, so anyone who gets this can will be able to drain the cargo without a pump of their own. These tanks are modular – the tank and the engine assembly can be broken apart with just a zero-gee wrench. The tank can be used as a reentry vehicle for Earth –– and the shroud on the front can hold enough silicon dioxide sand so that Chaffee can make their own tiles. Lastly, the tanks can be cut apart and re-rolled for anything the Chaffee engineers want to make.”

  Lee shook his head. “It really seems to be overkill. I mean, are all the Mooncans going to have these additions? I can't see us making a thousand oxygen pumps, for example.”

  McCrary chuckled. It was such a rare thing to hear the big, dour man laugh that Lee stared at the man until he stopped.

  “Sorry to do that, sir. I should have anticipated your question. The answer is yes, all of the Mooncans will have these additions. The reason is simple: the Mooncan is far more than a simple tank we fling to the Chaffee. It will be the product of the Moon, and it's going to be found everywhere. For example, we can fling thousands of these to Mars, even when the orbital parameters are less than ideal, and they will all make it because of their motors. Their tanks can hold all kinds of things, not just LOX.

  “Roque has been on the line with me about some of the spectrometer results from that KREEP terrane expedition, as well as the Betsy overflight that Zanger made. There's thorium there. Huge amounts, not the piddly remains we get here. We get enough from normal operations of The Works to keep our reactor going and some to store for later. But when we set up a mine over in the Procellarium, we'll be able to fire Mooncans full of pure thorium out to Mars, and the expeditions there will have enough for a hundred years of power, sitting around in perfect storage containers, ready for use.

  “Consider, sir, that one of these days, too, the Chaffee will just get too big to be efficient. When I was there, we had a couple of traffic problems already when unmanned supply flights were getting jammed up in receiving, or we couldn't get enough space on the shuttle flights downstairs to deliver all of the product we were making. Mooncans will be the answer to both issues. Imagine, a Mooncan, lined with Moon-derived silica tiles, reentering Earth's atmosphere and homing in on its target landing field. The tiles even act as shock absorbers, crushing on impact to cushion the product inside.”

  Lee, in self-defense, held up his hands. “All right, all right! I get it. You mentioned something about using a Mooncan around the base. Tell me about that.”

  McCrary laid his hand lovingly on the can on the workbench. “Imagine, if you would, sir, a Moondog on the surface. Something happens to him—a tear in his suit, a crack in his visor. Nothing immediately lethal like what happened to Angus, but an emergency regardless. He bunny-hops as fast as he can to one of these cans scattered around The Works, or in the cave at the base of the ringwall, or even bolted on to his buggy. He steps inside, closes the sides, and plugs his suit into the standard coupling. The Moondog has enough supplies of O2 for a week, if he tranks up, or for a couple of days if he elects to stay awake. It's a little tight, sure, but it is a self-contained item that we can pick up with our gear here, run down to the buggy garage, and get the guy into pressure while he's still alive.”

  “That would be a reason to build Mooncans, just by itself.” Lee said thoughtfully. “Every time I hear a Mayday from the surface, my guts clench.”

  “You'll be able to relax, I hope, sir.” McCrary walked over to an upright Mooncan unnoticed by a pillar, opened the sides, and stepped in. “I've designed these to fit all throughout the Collins, sir, including The Works and the cave. My goal is to have at least ten of them in every separate pressure area so that, no mat
ter how bad the blowout, if the Moondog is conscious, he's never more than five to ten seconds from one of these. If he can get inside within that time, even if he's naked, he can survive until we come get him.”

  McCrary got out, fiddled with the controls at the base, and walked about seven meters away. “Stand back, sir. I want you to yell BANG, then count seconds.”

  Lee moved out of the direct line from McCrary and the Mooncan. He waited a few seconds, then yelled “Bang! One-one-thousand, two...”

  McCrary was in the Mooncan by the fourth second, the clamshell doors were slammed shut a half second later, then a brief pressurization hiss followed. A second hiss indicated reducing pressure, and the doors opened and McCrary emerged, only slightly mussed.

  “My God,” said Lee.

  “Imagine them scattered throughout the Chaffee,” said McCrary. “They are not foolproof. The 'blowout setting' must be selected and left alone. Some moron will keep the doors closed, or put something in front of them. Worse, someone will futz with the controls so that the person jumping in can't slam the doors. Maybe we can tie them into the control net, so we'll know which ones are out of commission at any particular time.”

  Lee laughed and clapped McCrary on his shoulder. “Enough! Let's just get them built. How will you manage that?”

  McCrary smiled. “One of the most massive things I had shipped up here when The Works went south was a complete CNC milling machine. Computer controlled, complete set of cutting tools with not just replacements, but the tools needed to make the tools. With this baby, we can set it to take ingots directly from The Works and make a complete Mooncan in about fifteen hours, minus some specialty seals and the electronics, which require human intervention and take another six to nine hours. So, a Mooncan a day is not bad.

  “These cans are test articles, untouched by human hands, entirely made by machine. All we have to do is stick in some circuit boards, some polybutadiene rubber seals, and it's completely functional. Roque has some ideas for making synthetic rubber out of our asteroid, and the circuit boards might be possible once we get KREEP extraction underway, but right now, we're reliant on Earth for them.”

  “McCrary, I'm at a complete loss for words. This is fantastic.” Lee kept touching the vertical Mooncan. “Angus,” he said, quietly.

  “Sir,” said McCrary. “According to Devore, Mr. Turley died instantly. A Mooncan would not have saved him. But I do understand.”

  Lee patted the Mooncan one final time as straightened up. “What do you need from me?”

  McCrary considered his words carefully. “Sir, it's quite probable that UNSOC will be unwilling to provide us with the electronics we would need to make five hundred of these into survival shelters. Improving it as a bulk carrier, yes. I hesitate to ask, sir...”

  Lee nodded and held up his hand. “Let me anticipate you. Suppose I made the case to Commander Daniels and she made the case to the tenants of the Chaffee about the desirability of having these ShelterCans around up there. They are all aware of UNSOC's, ah, peculiar priorities for space resupply. She could ask them if they could see their way clear to providing, say, five hundred each of whatever it is you need to convert a MoonCan to a ShelterCan. In return, Commander Daniels will do whatever it is she does when these sorts of requests are necessary.”

  McCrary ground his hands together. “Damned UNSOC should provide for their own, instead of us having to lie and cheat like this.”

  Lee looked surprised. “But it does! UNSOC does provide for its own. But 'its own' is defined as Subby, his network of spies, and Subby's superiors. The rest of us are treated as a necessary evil—people that are needed to make sure the gravy train keeps on providing.”

  McCrary had a bar of black synthetic rubber the size of his forearm, and he was twisting it in his two hands, back and forth. Lee decided to dial it down.

  “McCrary, I'll set up a conference with Commander Daniels, Roque, and whoever else you want on the Chaffee. You figure out a shopping list, we'll make the case to her, and let her take it from there.”

  “Thank you, sir. I hate this—the truth is so much simpler.”

  Lee smiled a wintery smile. “Humans seem to delight in making things complicated. You'll get your parts, and I want you to make ShelterCans first, for us and the Chaffee, before you make any for the hauling trade.”

  McCrary put down the bar of plastic. “Understood, sir. Thank you.”

  Budget Battles

  UNSOC Hearing Room 5T, March 27 2081, 0900 hrs

  “The witness will answer the question,” boomed the middle-aged man at the center of the panel. Lisa ran over her last replies in her head. The Honorable Representative from Zimbabwe was physically imposing and had the reputation, at least among his countrymen, of having been shipped off to the United Nations in order to reduce his enemies' body count in his district back home.

  “I apologize, sir,” she said carefully. “But I believe I have answered it. I am responsible for the maintenance of the United Nations Space Station Roger B. Chaffee as a micro-gravity industrial base. I am not in charge of the performing any actual manufacturing. The rents received from firms that do the actual production are a matter for the home office.”

  “Pushing off your responsibility onto ground staff,” replied the diplomat. “Hardly the kind of leadership we expected from you when you were promoted to command the station. Perhaps we made a mistake.” The Zimbabwean thug was well known for his dislike of women, Caucasians, and Westerners in general.

  Lisa breathed slowly at the witness stand. She knew he was goading her unnecessarily, and refused to respond to the slight.

  “The gentleman is, perhaps, mistaken in why actual shortfalls occur,” she said delicately. “When ExoMat's raw materials were destroyed during a cargo launch mishap, they were forced into shutdown and triggered the fee contingency paragraph of their contract. The difference in rental rates between operational status and involuntary shutdown is about eighty-five percent of the lost rents.”

  “Commander Holt never quibbled like this,” grumbled the diplomat.

  “Commander Holt is retired,” said Lisa. Left in disgust at the boodle to this gang of thieves extracted from productive people is more accurate.

  A soft chime sounded, and Lisa relaxed slightly. The time for questioning had run out on the Zimbabwe 'gentleman'. Six kleptocrats down, only seven to go.

  Holt warned me that these would be rough. No wonder Subby doesn't want to sit on the hotseat. Next time the Panel meets, I'll have to figure out a reason I can't come downstairs. But that means losing time with Shep. Damn. Nothing is easy.

  Lack of Coolant

  UNSOC Space Station Roger B. Chaffee, April 4 2081, 1034 hrs

  Hodges knew he was in trouble. Well, 'trouble' really encompassed a lot of territory. It wasn't really immediate trouble, but he could tell things were going south.

  He was squeezed under the Astrogation station, trying to get at a defective valve on the thermal balancing loop. Just one more maintenance task keeping the UNSOC Space Station Chaffee alive. The valve, as luck would have it, was directly under Astrogator Celine Greenfield. He always felt awkward around the Ice Queen.

  Worse, his good friend Lisa Daniels, commander of the Chaffee, was on the Main Deck as well. Whereas Celine made him wary, Lisa, on the other hand, brought out the playful older brother in him. Yet total professionalism was called for here; he didn't want to deal with Celine's snide comments. Lisa was cool - she would understand.

  Commander Daniels was back from her semi-annual Space Budget Panel grilling, and she was still trying to get past the experience. At least she wasn’t ripping everyone to shreds anymore. One Ice Queen per spacecraft was more than enough—Chaffee didn't need two.

  John's mind went back, as it often did, to Tyra. His last call downstairs was decidedly odd. For one thing, the kids were really quiet—they normally raised hell as soon as Mom was on the phone. It was almost like someone else was there.

  John sighed as h
e carefully slipped the cover panel off. The calls had taken on a predictable pattern: she needed more than a 'two weeks out of twenty-six' husband; he would remind her that his job paid for the affluent lifestyle that she and the children enjoyed. On his next trip groundside, she’d demand he ask for reassignment. He would counter with the fact that they would lose flight pay, which was the only thing keeping them afloat, plus they would have to move to out of her beloved gated community. They would stop at that point, then go on to other topics. The problem was never resolved, but it continued to corrode their relationship.

  The whole experience left him shaken. It reminded him too much of the massive fight that occurred fifteen years previously. He had narrowly avoided divorce when Tyra accused him of drinking too much. He loved her, so he stopped the drinking and never looked back.

  He really missed Tyra, yet just couldn't figure out how to show her how much he cared for her. Sending her presents did not seem to work. She had accused him of trying to 'buy her off', as she put it.

  Well, there wasn't much he could do about it here. His Velcro-booted feet hooked under Celine's perch, the only nearby anchor where he could gain any leverage in the microgravity environment of the Chaffee. He laid the cover panel aside and picked up small pipe wrenches. This was a delicate job. Not only was the tubing containing the working fluid for the heat transfer pumps very thin, it was also about eighty years old. The chances of breaking the tubing were high, which was why he was performing this job himself.

  Celine, required to remain on station, drew her feet up until she squatted, bird-like, on the flat of the backless perch. She peered between her knees at John as he worked.

  John carefully spun the locking nuts on the valve in opposite directions, loosening the valve's hold on the tubing. He sighed happily. This danger point was past. He carefully eased the valve free of its connections and slipped it into a plastic bag.