Crescent

  Maria knew the woman liked to talk so she absorbed the paper in her reader and kept going. Outside, her chauffeur was waiting with the limobug. Maria settled in and then took a moment to glance at the article, which showed her sitting with a young man dressed in a fashionable black tunic and leggings. His name, the article said, was Eric Stanley and he was described as “handsome and fresh from Earth with all the latest news, gossip, and fashions.” Maria was described as “our true moon goddess, the lovely and elegant young lady of fair skin, crisp gray eyes, and a delightful smile whom we all know as Miss Maria Medaris. Her silk red dress turned every head.”

  The article went on to say the event was to raise money for the Colonel John High Eagle Medaris Hospital and Maria had made a passionate plea for funds. Maria was pleased that the photograph accompanying the article showed her and the “fresh from Earth” young businessman sitting close together. Her grandfather, always hopeful she would find a suitable husband, would like that. As for her father, she supposed he might be pleased as well. If she married and had children, he might hope to maneuver her out of her job while she was distracted.

  Of course, the reporter did not follow Maria and the young businessman back to Maria’s apartment. If she had, she would have seen him put one hand on the door and lean in to kiss Maria. She would have also seen Maria turn her head and mutter, “I don’t think so,” and slip inside, leaving the disappointed suitor outside.

  It wasn’t the first time Maria had played that scene. She knew very well she was attractive and desirable, but she was, after all, only nineteen years old, even if she did hold a doctorate in economics from John Wesley Clayton University, the most prestigious academic center for such studies on the North American continent. She was in no hurry for romance. Her focus needed to be completely on the Medaris Jumpcar Company.

  She snapped the reader off. Thinking of the young man she’d disappointed had inevitably led her to think about Crater. What was he doing at that very moment? Who was he with? Every day she had to battle with herself to keep from calling him. She detested her weakness. She wished with all her might she had never heard of that stupid, stupid boy!

  The other players had already gathered at the Christopher C. Craft, Jr. Park near the east wall of the Neil Armstrong Dome. The game was called Butterfly, a gentle name for a brutal sport. To play the game required the players to first climb the interior of the dome to its top where there was a round platform hanging on cables, placed there to hold huge sunlamps.

  In the privacy of the limobug, Maria changed out of her business tunic and drew on a silver jumpsuit. Outside, the chauffeur removed the flimsy wings from the trunk and handed them to her. “I will call you when I need you, Derek,” she said. The chauffeur touched his cap, climbed in the limobug, and drove away.

  Six men and two women were in various stages of preparation for the game. She recognized all but one, a trim, muscular young man with a determined look on his face. He introduced himself. “Levi Malenkov,” he said. “Last year’s Butterfly Champion in the Russian Province.”

  “Maria Medaris. Butterfly champion here in Armstrong City.”

  “I know who you are,” Malenkov said. “I came here to knock you down.”

  “Good luck on that.”

  “We Russians are known for our chess. You North Americans for your poker. Chess will win tonight. You see, I have studied your moves.”

  It was true Maria played poker. In fact, she was very good at it. But chess was a game she was good at too. She always made a point of knowing who’d signed up for Butterfly. When she’d seen Malenkov’s name, she had searched out vids and studied his moves.

  The players began to climb the great curved lunasteel buttresses that supported the dome. It was an arduous task, hand over hand, step after step, up the curve until each player was clinging to the buttress upside down. One missed handhold or boot placement and down they would plummet. They would not die, presuming their parachute worked, but if they fell, they were automatically out of the game.

  Two players, one man and one woman, slipped on the way, leaving Maria, Malenkov, and five others still climbing. When they reached the platform, they swung up on it. “I’m glad you made it,” Malenkov said to Maria.

  “I’m glad you made it too,” Maria answered. “I like to play against people who know what they’re doing.”

  “You have the reputation of being vicious in this game,” Malenkov said.

  “I do what it takes to win.”

  “So do I.”

  Maria smiled. “Good. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  The players donned their wings, counted down, and then simultaneously threw themselves over the edge. Maria folded her wings back, dived straight down on one of the other players, slammed into him, tore off his wings, then pushed him away. She looked between her boots and saw Malenkov was after another player. The Russian was a nimble player, brute force not his style. He kicked out, caught his spurs in one of the man’s wings, and tore it to shreds. The player fluttered downward until he was forced to deploy his parachute.

  Maria slammed into another player and kicked him in the helmet, tore off his wings, pushed him away, then deployed her wings. She gained lift and soared upward, found one of the other players trying to avoid Malenkov, and used her spurs to tear away her wings. When the woman tried to fight back, Maria kneed her in the stomach. She gasped, then fell away, clutching her midriff, before finally deploying her parachute. Maria’s helmet mirror revealed a flier coming at her. She arched her back, pulled in her wings, and spiraled away. The flier went past and Maria dived after him before stretching out her wings again. Slipping in close, she lashed out with her boots, kicking him in the head. She pulled in her wings, then wrapped her legs around her foe. The man desperately tried to punch her but she dodged his fists. A well-aimed elbow to his face stopped him and his nose spurted blood. She pulled off one of his wings before pushing him away. Another parachute deployed.

  Malenkov swooped away from her, gained lift, then flew back. She flitted away toward the side of the dome, coiled up her legs, then pushed off hard to gain altitude. Malenkov circled beneath her. To get at him, she tucked in her wings and went into a vertical dive. He looked up and tried to get away, but Maria had the advantage. She crashed into him, kicked him in the chest, battered his helmet with another kick, then tore off one of his wings. After he deployed his parachute, she flew down and circled him while he looked at her with a puzzled expression.

  The players met back at the green. The man she’d elbowed in the face was sitting in the grass, holding his ruined nose. The other players were giving him sympathy. Maria ignored them and concentrated on packing her wings. Malenkov came over. He studied her, then asked, “What are you so angry about?”

  “I’m not angry about anything.”

  “To you, this game is not about winning,” he replied. “It’s about getting even. Tonight I understand why you are always victorious. Who is it you are trying to get even with?”

  “I beat you,” Maria said. “That is all you need to know.”

  She turned away from the Russian, folded her wings, and stowed them in the trunk. The limo driver opened the door and she climbed inside. There, she slumped down in the seat, then put her hands to her face. Bitter, hot tears leaked between her fingers. What was she angry about? Perhaps a father who disliked her and sabotaged her every ambition. Or maybe it was a certain young man she’d once cared for, maybe even loved, who had not come to see her when she lay sick and injured in a hospital bed. “I hate you, Crater Trueblood,” she said, focusing her anger. “I really do.”

  ::: TWELVE

  Crescent followed Crater along the main tube. She was scuffing her boots on the floor like a petulant child. Crater looked over his shoulder and said, “If you don’t want to go, why don’t you go back to the Dust Palace?”

  “I told my queen I would serve you,” Crescent answered, “and I will.”

  “Then pick up your feet.”
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  “Yes, Master.”

  “I told you to stop calling me Master.”

  “Perhaps I would remember better if you didn’t treat me like a slave.”

  Crater recalled he was supposed to talk to Crescent about her temper, but he was having trouble containing his own. He’d lain awake half the night worrying about Crescent. It certainly had not been his intention to adopt the little crowhopper, but Q-Bess had now made it clear Crescent was part of the family. The Colonel had more than once accused him of being soft. Maybe, Crater thought, that was the reason he’d brought Crescent to Moontown. He muttered to himself, “Soft!”

  “What was that, Master?”

  “Nothing. And stop dragging your feet!”

  “As you wish.” Crescent started running. She threw herself against the ceiling, flipped off it, then built up enough velocity to run along the side of the tube.

  “Stop it!” Crater shouted.

  Crescent slowed until she was walking, then started scuffing the soles of her boots on the floor again. This time Crater didn’t say anything. He just shook his head and kept going until they arrived at the east dustlock where not only his equipment was stored but he also knew a female dustie was on duty. After they’d climbed inside, the dustie—a woman named Annie—came out, her eyebrows rising at the sight of Crescent. “Annie, I’d appreciate it if you would measure her for a biolastic sheath,” Crater said.

  Annie frowned in disbelief. “I heard you’d brought one of those things to town.”

  “Annie,” Crater said, “this is Crescent. Crescent, say hello to Annie.”

  “Hello,” Crescent said.

  Annie’s frown turned into a scowl. “How many of our troops did it kill?”

  “She didn’t kill anybody,” Crater replied.

  “That is true, to my shame,” Crescent said.

  “If you want it outfitted, Crater, do it yourself,” Annie said. “I have no intention of touching it.”

  This attitude confused Crater. “But it’s your job,” he said.

  “Then you can take this job and shove it in the scrag pile,” she replied and left the dustlock.

  Crater thought the situation over and came up with no good solution except to go ahead. “Look,” he said to Crescent, “before we go outside, you’ll need to be measured for a biolastic sheath. Do you know what that is?”

  “A biolastic sheath,” Crescent answered, “is a film of micro-organisms genetically programmed to apply one Earthian pressure on the human or other body wearing it. When attached to a helmet, usually in conjunction with coveralls and boots, the human or other organic body may safely enter an area of low pressure, such as the surface of the moon, and return without fear of decompression sickness or the need to undergo a lengthy decompression regimen.”

  “Word for word, right out of the book,” Crater admired. “Do you know how to use the apparatus to make your sheath?”

  “Of course I do. I am well educated in most technical matters. The Trainers believe the more a Legionnaire knows, the more likely he is to survive. I assure you I know many things that might surprise you.”

  “It is well known crowhoppers lie,” Crater pointed out.

  “Legionnaires, you mean, but you are correct. We are trained to lie if required to complete our mission. However, I have no present mission and I presume my contract was voided when you captured me. Therefore, I have no reason to lie at present. Do you understand?”

  Argumentative people wore Crater out. He knew what he knew and he saw no sense arguing about any of it. He nodded toward a locker that held coveralls, boots, and helmets. “Find what fits and take them in with you. After you get your sheath made, put everything on, then come back into this chamber.”

  “Aren’t you coming with me?” she asked.

  “No. You can do everything yourself.”

  “But I will need to input my measurements to the puter so it can make my sheath. It would be much easier if you helped.”

  “To make the measurements requires you to be naked.”

  “What does that matter?”

  Crater sighed. “Just do what I tell you.”

  “Yes, Master,” she answered, looking triumphant. She chose her coveralls, boots, and helmet, picked up a backpack, then climbed inside the dustlock with the gear.

  After closing the hatch behind her, Crater waited until he heard the spray of the biolastic shower, then quickly undressed, pulled on his sheath, coveralls, and boots, donned a backpack, then sat down and impatiently waited. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. “Aren’t you ready yet?” he called.

  “Have a little patience,” she replied. Her tone was grumpy.

  It took another ten minutes, but finally Crescent emerged, fully suited. Crater ran through the suit checklist. “You’re all set,” he said.

  “I am quite capable with the technical requirements of most dustlocks,” she replied. “Although, as I correctly pointed out, it would have been much easier and faster if you would have helped.”

  “Everything would actually go easier and faster if you weren’t constantly griping,” Crater said in exasperation.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Fine. Call me Master, just as long as you do exactly what I tell you to do.”

  “I await your various ill-considered commands.”

  “All right. Here’s my next ill-considered command. Let’s go outside.”

  “I can’t get out there fast enough, oh masterful one.”

  Crater chose to ignore Crescent’s insolence, mainly because he didn’t know what to do about it. Once they were inside the airlock chamber, he pulled the inner hatch closed, pressed the necessary keys on the control panel to depressurize the airlock, and heard the hissing of air as it was emptied into a holding chamber to be cleansed and recycled. When the dustlock puter announced pressure had reached essentially zero, Crater checked his and Crescent’s gauges. They were in the green so he climbed through the outer hatch onto the well-trod dust.

  Crescent followed him and stood in the dust, the first time she’d been outside since arriving in Moontown. The Earth hanging in the black sky attracted her attention. “When I first went into space, I was surprised at how blue the Earth is,” she said. “Where I grew up, the dirt was brown, the water gray, and the trees green. I never saw anything blue.”

  “What else do you remember of Earth?” Crater asked as he pushed the hatch shut.

  “Wooden barracks, cold days, colder nights, weapons training, crawling through the mud, mush for food,” she said.

  “Anything good?”

  “That was good.”

  “What do you consider bad?”

  “Losing,” she said.

  “That’s it?”

  Crescent thought it over. “I don’t like being laughed at. I know I’m ugly. That is no reason for amusement.”

  Crater had a natural urge to tell the little crowhopper she wasn’t ugly but he didn’t, mainly because he was certain she wouldn’t believe him. Her flat face, coarse hair, gray skin, thick torso, and heavy legs were different enough that the human brain, trained to recognize feminine beauty in a much different way, was judgmental. Instead, he asked, “Considering that standard humans are proportionately different from Legionnaires, do we look ugly to you?”

  “Some do. The sheriff to me is as ugly as a dirty pistol.”

  Crater chuckled. “He’s ugly to most folks. How about me?”

  “You are a well-formed human male, reasonably pleasant to look at,” she said. “Understand that the Trainers are human and we naturally admire and honor them. Perhaps for this reason certain human faces and forms are recognized as attractive.”

  “Thank you, I guess,” Crater said.

  “You’re welcome, I suppose,” she replied, rewarded by Crater’s pleased smile. “Why do you smile?” she asked.

  “Because you said ‘You’re welcome.’ You’ve learned!”

  “Of course I’ve learned! Does not the slave learn from the master?”
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  “I’m sorry,” Crater said. “I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “However, you did, and it is not the first time.”

  Crater started to apologize further, then thought better of it. It was clear Crescent liked to argue, almost as if it were a game, one at which she was far more skilled than Crater. “Let’s go to work,” he said, then led her up a well-worn trail to the sun-powered furnaces.

  Inside the control building was a shelf that held three burial urns made of mooncrete. One of them was marked Frederick J. Hook, another Doom, and the other Argentina Mike, a miner who’d been running from several wives and had managed to live less than a year on the Moontown scrapes before being run over by a loader.

  Crater carefully placed the urns in a plaston crate that he handed to Crescent. “Don’t drop this.”

  “What are these things?”

  “They’re urns, containers that hold the dust of the people whose names are on them.”

  “How did they get turned into dust?”

  “Solar furnace. That’s why they’re here.”

  “What are we going to do with them?”

  “We’re going to a special place and scatter them.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the human body doesn’t decompose on the moon. It becomes a mummy.”

  “Ah. Like the ancient Egyptians.”

  Crater didn’t want to get off talking about ancient Egyptians. Crescent probably knew a lot about them and it might be difficult to get her off the subject. “Get aboard the mini-scraper,” he said, pointing at a small tracked vehicle with a blade up front.

  Holding the urn box, Crescent sat in the passenger’s seat while Crater got behind the wheel and drove north. A little over an hour later they arrived at the rim of a large crater. Crater parked, then trudged up to the rim, Crescent following with the crate of urns. To the north, a vast plain of brownish-gray dust spread to the horizon from which rose the ebony blackness of space. “What is this place?” Crescent asked. “The Trainers never taught me much about the geography of the moon. That was specialty training for the navigators.”