The pressure on Xenia, on both of them, was immense and unrelenting.
After one grueling twenty-hour day, she slept with Frank. She thought it would relieve the tension, for both of them. Well, it did, for a brief oceanic moment. But then, as they rolled apart, it all came down on them again.
Frank lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, jaw muscles working, restless, tense.
Later Mariko Kashiwazaki called Xenia. Xenia took the call in her
Mariko had preliminary results about the glass object from Edo. “The object is constructed almost entirely of lunar surface material.”
“Almost?”
“There are also complex organics in there. We don’t know where they came from, or what they are for. There is water, too, sealed into cells within the glass. The structure itself acts as a series of lenses, which focus sunlight. Remarkably efficient. There seem to be a series of valves on the underside that draw in particles of regolith. The grains are melted, evaporated, in intense focused sunlight. It’s a pyrolysis process similar to—”
“What happens to the vaporized material?”
“There is a series of traps, leading off from each light-focusing cell. The traps are maintained at different temperatures by spicules — the fine needles protruding from the upper surface — which also, we suspect, act to deflect daytime sunlight, and conversely work as insulators during the long lunar night. In the traps, at different temperatures, various metal species condense out. The structure seems to be oriented toward collecting aluminum. There is also an oxygen trap further back.”
Aluminum and oxygen.
Mariko consulted notes in a softscreen. “Within this structure the organic chemicals serve many uses. A complex chemical factory appears to be at work here. There is a species of photosynthesis, for instance. There is evidence of some kind of root system, which perhaps provides the organics in the first place… But there is no source we know of. This is the
“Xenia, this is essentially a vapor-phase reduction machine of staggering elegance of execution, mediated by organic chemistry. It must be an artifact. And yet it looks—”
“What?”
“As if it
“Are you saying this has some kind of a nervous system?”
Mariko shrugged. “Even if this
“I can’t tell you that.”
“There has been much speculation about the form life would take, here on the Moon. It could be seeded by some meteorite-impact transfer from Earth. But volatile depletion seemed an unbeatable obstacle. Where does it get its organic material? Was it from the root structure, from deep within the Moon? If so, you realize that this is confirmation of my hypotheses about the volatiles in—”
Xenia stopped.
Mariko looked shocked, as Xenia, with weary certainty, had expected. “You want to
That caused Xenia to hesitate. She had never thought of herself as a person who would
Life was trivial, compared to the needs of the project.
“This isn’t science, Mariko. I don’t want anything perturbing Roughneck.”
Mariko made to protest again.
“Read your contract,” Xenia snapped. “You must do what I say.” And she cut the connection.
She returned to bed. Frank seemed to be asleep.
She had a choice to make. Not about the comet deflection issue; others would unravel that, in time. About Frank, and herself.
He fascinated her. He was a man of her own time, with a crude vigor she didn’t find among the Japanese-descended colonists of the Moon. He was the only link she had with home. The only human on the Moon who didn’t speak Japanese to her.
That, as far as she could tell, was all she felt.
In the meantime, she must consider her own morality.
Lying beside him, she made her decision. She wouldn’t betray him. As long as he needed her, she would stand with him.
But she would not save him.
Eighty days in and Frank was still making hole at his couple-of-kilometers-a-day target pace. But things had started to get a lot harder.
This was
Costs escalated. The pressure on Frank to shut down was intense.
Many of the investors had already become extremely rich from the potential of the rich ore lodes discovered in the lower crust and upper mantle. There was talk of opening up new, shallow bores elsewhere on the Moon to seek out further lodes. Frank had proved his point. Why go farther, when the Roughneck was already a commercial success?
But metal ore wasn’t Frank’s goal, and he wasn’t about to stop now.
That was when the first death occurred, all of a hundred kilometers below the surface of the Moon.
She found him in his office at New Dallas, pacing back and forth, an Earth man caged on the Moon, his muscles lifting him off the glass floor.
“Omelettes and eggs,” he said. “Omelettes and eggs.”
“That’s a cliche, Frank.”
“It was probably the fucking Grays.”
“There’s no evidence of sabotage.”
He paced. “Look, we’re in the
“You don’t have to justify it to me,” she said, but he wasn’t listening.
“The mantle,” he said. “You know, I hate it. A thousand kilometers of worthless shit.”
“It was the changeover to the subterrene that caused the disaster. Right?”
He ran a hand over his greasy hair. “If you were a prosecutor, and this was a court, I’d challenge you on ‘caused.’ The accident happened when we switched over to the subterrene, yes.”
They had already gone too deep for the simple alloy casing or the cooled lunar glass Frank had used in the upper levels. To get through the mantle they would use a subterrene, a development of obsolete deep-mining technology. It was a probe that melted its way through the rock and built its own casing behind it: a tube of hard, high-melting-point quasiglass.
Frank started talking, rapidly, about quasiglass. “It’s the stuff the Lunar Japanese use for rocket nozzles. Very high melting point. It’s based on diamond, but it’s a quasicrystal, so the lab boys tell me, halfway between a crystal and a glass. Harder than ordinary crystal because there are no neat planes for cracks and defects to propagate. And it’s a good heat insulator similarly. Besides that, we support the hole against collapse and shear stress with rock bolts, fired through the casing and into the rock beyond. We do everything we can to ensure the integrity of our structure…”
This was, she realized, a first draft of the testimony he would have to give to the investigating commissions.
When the first subterrene started up, it built a casing with a flaw, undetected for a hundred meters. There had been an implosion. They lost the subterrene itself, a kilometer of bore, and a single life, of a senior tool pusher.
“We’ve already restarted,” Frank said. “A couple of days and we’ll have recovered.”
“Frank, this isn’t a question of schedule loss,” she said. “It’s the wider impact. Public perception. Come on; you know how important this is. If we don’t handle this right we’ll be shut down.”
He seemed reluctant to absorb that. He was silent for maybe half a minute.
Then his mood switched. He started pacing. “You know, we can leverage this to our advantage.”
“What do you mean?”
“We need to turn this guy we lost — what was his name? — into a hero.” He snapped his fingers. “Did he have any family? A ten-year-old daughter would be perfect, but we’ll work with whatever we have. Get his kids to drop cherry blossom down the hole. You know the deal. The message has to be right.
“Frank, the dead engineer was a she.”