Dafydd ab Hugh & Brad Linaweaver - Doom 02 - Hell on Earth

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As we hit the roof of Deimos, I looked up.

The pressure dome was cracked. Of course. That

made sense, the way things had been going. Next

thing you knew, thousand-year-old Martians would

come along and wink us out of existence.

Fly Taggart stared at the crack, and his eyes bugged

out like a frog. I wish he knew a bit more physics; if I

have one complaint about Fly, it's that he doesn't

hold with higher education. The crack was small, and

I could see it wasn't going to leak all the air out of the

dome in the next few minutes. Days, more like; days,

or even weeks. It's a big facility.

Then I looked past the crack and saw what that

huge Marine corporal was really staring at: we weren't

orbiting Mars anymore!

The entire moon of Deimos had just taken a

whirlwind tour of the solar system. I swallowed hard;

we were staring at Earth.

"I ... guess we know their invasion plans now," I

said, feeling the blood rush to my face.

Fly plucked at his uniform—Lieutenant Weems's

uniform, except he'd pulled off the butter bars—like

it had suddenly started itching, "Well at least we

stopped them," he said.

"Look again, Fly." The globe was flecked with

bright pinpoints of light, flares of explosives millions

of times more powerful, more hellish, than any we

had ducked or lobbed back here on Deimos. I

pointed to the obvious nuclear exchange blanketing

our home, dumping like a few billion tons of radia-

tion, fallout, and sheer explosive muscle on—on

everyone we had ever known. "Looks like they've

already invaded."

Fly suddenly latched onto my arm with a vise grip

of raging emotion. I tried to pry his steel hands loose,

while he hollered in my ear. "It's not over, Arlene!"

PFC Arlene Sanders, United States Marine Corps:

that's me. "We've already proven who's tougher. We

won't let it end like this!"

Right. Me and Fly and nothing but weapons,

ammo, and a hand with some fingers on it. We were,

going to jump from LEO down to the surface of the

Earth. Or maybe we'd drive the planetoid down and

land it at Point Mugu. I guess you couldn't consider

Deimos strictly a moon anymore, since it appeared to

be mobile.

We were stuck a mere four hundred klicks from

where we wanted to be: but that was four hundred

kilometers straight up. What's more, we were flying

around the Earth at something better than ten kilom-

eters per second—not only would we have to jump

down, we'd better do one hell of a big foot-drag to kill

that orbital velocity.

And after that we'd solve Format's Last Theorem,

simplify the tax code, and cure world hunger.

That last one was easy enough to fix. The problem

wasn't that there wasn't enough food; it was just in

the wrong places and didn't last long enough. I once

heard an old duffer say all we really needed was food

irradiation, Seal-a-Meals, and a bunch of rocket mail

tubes to plant the food in the center of the famine du

jour.

Rocket mail tubes . . .

"Fly," I shrieked, jumping up and down. "I know

how to do it!"

"Do what, damn it?"

Could we do it? I did some fast, rule-of-thumb

calculations: our mass versus that of a typical "care

package" from Mars, the sort they sent up to the

grunts like me serving on Deimos; the Earth's gravita-

tional pull compared to that of Mars—it's harder to

fly up and down off the Earth's surface than the

Martian surface. Maybe ... no, it would work!

Well, maybe.

"I know how to get us across to Earth, Fly. Did you

know there's a maintenance shed for unmanned snip-

ping rockets on this dump of a moon?"

"No," he said suspiciously.

Of course he didn't. He was never stationed here,

like I'd been. It was a garage where the motor-pool

sergeant kept all the mail tubes, the shipping rockets. I

had no idea why they were called "mail tubes"; we

send our mail electronically, as the universe intended.

"A one-way ticket to Earth," I summed up, trying

to penetrate that thick skull of his. "If we can find any

kind of ship, we go home and kick some zombie ass.

Again."

"All over again," he breathed, catching my drift at

last. "Well, hell, we're professionals at this now!"

We continued looking at the familiar blue-green

sphere of Earth, as the unfamiliar white spots ap-

peared and disappeared all over the globe. An old

piece of advice floated up from deep in my memory:

DON'T LOOK DOWN! We gazed upon white clouds

so beautiful that they reminded me of what we'd been

fighting to save.

Were we too late? Part of me hoped so, a part that

just wanted to sit down and rest.

We'd fought those damned, ugly monsters until we

were too tired to fight—and now it was looking like

we had to do it all over again.

All at once I noticed a sprinkling of the flares all

over California, my home state. "Oh, God, Fly," I

said, my stomach contracting.

"Yeah. Terrible." Jesus, couldn't my best bud think

of anything stronger to say when Armageddon came

to your hometown?

I shook my head. "You don't understand. That's

not what I meant. I mean I don't feel anything." I

trembled as I spoke.

Fly put his arm around me; well, that was more like

it. "It's all right," he mumbled. "It's not what you

think. There's nothing wrong with you. After what

you've been through, you're just numb. Your brain is

tired."

I let my head rest on his shoulder. "So my mind is

coming loose. What about body and soul?"

Right then and there I decided we needed a new

word to describe the state after you've reached ex-

haustion but had to keep going on automatic pilot.

Wherever that state was, Fly and I had been there a

long, long time.

I put my arm around Arlene's shoulders,

hoping she would understand it meant nothing but

friendship. Oh don't be silly, Fly; of course she

understands!

Where to begin? I was born at an early age, in a log

cabin I helped my father build. I grew up, joined

the UnitedStatesMarineCorpsSir!—went to fight

"Scythe of Glory" Communist leftovers in Ke-

firistan, punched out the C.O., was banged up in the

brig and sent to Mars with the rest of my jarhead

buddies.

We up-shipped to Phobos, one of the moons of

Mars—well, now the only moon of Mars—and dis-

covered a boatload of aliens had invaded through the

used-to-be-dormant "Gates," long-range teleporters

from . . . from where? From another planet, God

knows where. Arlene and I battled our way into the

depths of the Phobos facility of the Union Aerospace

Corporation . . . who started the whole invasion,

turns out, by monkeying with the Gates in the first

place.

It all rolled downhill from there. We ended up on

Deimos somehow—and I'm still not sure how that

happened!—and duked our way up one side and

down the other, killing more types of monsters than

you can shake a twelve-gauge at, finally ending up in a

hyperspace tunnel . . . you'll have to ask Arlene Sand-

ers (Exhibit A, the gal to my left) to explain what that

is. But when we finally killed everything worth killing,

we lucked into stopping the invasion cold. See previ-

ous report-from-the-front for full details.

In the end, we faced down the spidermind—the

handy nickname chosen for the spider-shaped "mas-

termind" of the invasion, chosen by Bill Ritch,

requisat in pace, a computer genius who helped us at

the cost of his own life.

Right before defeating the spidermind, I'd thought

there was nothing left in me. I was certain that I

couldn't have continued without Arlene, a physical

reminder of what we were fighting for, like old-time

war propaganda. While she breathed, I had to

breathe, and fight. Blame it on the genes. We'd had

the strength to go on against hundreds of monsters.

We weren't about to let a little thing like the laws of

physics stop us now.

Arlene couldn't stop looking at California, so I

gently led her away from the sight. "You know,

Arlene, I feel really stupid that I didn't think of the

shed; especially after using the rocket fuel to fry the

friggin' spider."

She blinked her eyes and rubbed them. I could tell

she was trying not to cry. "That's why you need me,

Flynn Peter Taggart."

So we went spaceship shopping.

Of course, there was the little matter of adding to

our personal armaments. We hadn't seen any mon-

sters for a while. Maybe we neutralized all of them—

but I wasn't about to count on it.

"Once, I was asked why I don't like to go out on the

street without being armed," I told Arlene.

"Must have been an idiot," came the terse reply.

She'd regained her self-control, but she was still acting

defensive. We were good friends, but that made it

easier for her to be embarrassed in front of me.

"No, I wouldn't call her that," I continued. "But

she'd lived a protected life; never came up against the

mother of all storms."

"What's that?" Arlene wanted to know.

"Late-twentieth-century street slang for when the

bad mother on your block decides it's time to teach

you a lesson. At such times, it is advisable to carry an

equalizer."

"Like this?" Arlene asked, bending down to re-

trieve an AB-10 machine pistol, her personal fave.

Every little bit helps.

"If my friend had one of those in her purse—" I

began, but Arlene interrupted.

"Too long to get it out. I like to carry on my

person."

"Yeah, yeah. I was about to say if she had carried,

she might be alive today."

Arlene stopped rummaging through the contents of

a UAC crate and looked up. "Oh, Fly, I'm sorry."

"Sometimes you get the lesson only one time, and

it's pass-fail." I playfully poked the air in her direc-

tion. "Welcome back," I said.

"What do you mean?" she asked, squinting at me

the way she always did when I made her defensive.

"You can feel again, dear."

"Oh," she said, her body becoming more relaxed.

"You're right. One person means something. Well,

sometimes . . . if there aren't too many one persons."

"One's real. There's the body on the floor. A

million is just a statistic, no matter how much

screaming the professional mourner does."

She punched the air back at me. And she smiled.

We didn't talk for a little while. We continued gather-

ing goodies en route to the shed. It didn't take long to

locate; the good news was that it was large and

apparently well-stocked. It would take days to go

through all the crates and boxes; but if the labels on

the outside were accurate, we'd discovered a much

larger inventory of parts than I would have imagined

necessary for Deimos Base.

The bad news was a complete absence of ships in

any state of assembly. There was nothing to fly!

"Well jeez, I thought it was a great idea," said

Arlene. "Too bad it flopped."

Somehow it seemed immoral to give up hope while

standing inside Santa's workshop. I began examining

some of the boxes while Arlene kicked one across the

room; but that didn't bother me, she was never meant

for the modern age she was born into. She'd have been

more homey as a freebooter in the days of blood and

iron, when one physically competent woman did

enough in her lifetime to breed legends of lost,

Amazonian races of warrior queens. She had guts; she

had cold steel will. She didn't have patience, but what

the hell!

I didn't think I would face death as well as she. I'd

go down in a very nonstoic way, kicking death in the

groin if I could only line up my shot.

I looked inside those boxes—big ones, little ones,

all kinds of in-between ones—and an idea grew in my

head, a few words slipping out.

"I wonder if it still might be possible to seize the

objective," I muttered.

Arlene heard, too. "Huh? What do you mean, seize

the objective?"

I was only half listening. The little voice in the back

of my head drowned her out with some really crazy

stuff: "It seems ridiculous, A.S., but it could work."

The stoic qualities of Arlene Sanders were

better suited to facing death than being irritated by

her old buddy. "Fly, what the hell are you talking

about?" She stomped to where I was going through a

box of thin metal cylinders, perfect for the project

growing inside my head.

"Yes," I said, "it really could work."

Using the special tone of voice normally reserved

for dealing with mentally deficient children and

drunken sailors, she said: "Tell me what in God's

name you're on about, Fly!"

I lifted my head from the box. "When I was a kid, I

wanted a car real bad. I mean real bad. Real real, bad

bad."

"Here we go down memory lane," she said with a

shrug.

"See, I couldn't afford the car," I said, "but I

wanted one."

"Real real, bad bad?"

"I mean, I'd have taken anything with wheels and a

transmission. If I couldn't have a six, I'd settle for

four. Three, anything! But no matter how much I

lowered expectations, I still couldn't afford a vehicle."

"Is this going somewhere, Fly, or do I need to

hitchhike back home to Mother?"

"That's exactly right," I said. "I'm talking about

transportation. I couldn't afford a car—but I could

afford a spare part now and then, and you know how

this ended up?"

She put her hands on her hips, head tilted to the

side, and said: "Let me guess! You collected spare

parts, and collected and collected, and finally you

were able to build your own F-20! Or was it an aircraft

carrier? Amphibious landing craft?"

I ignored her. "I built myself a car. Had a few

problems; no brakes exactly, but it ran; and what a

powerful sound that baby made when she turned

over."

Arlene finally saw where I was headed. Memory

lane dead-ended right here on Deimos. "Fly, you're

BS-ing me."

"No, I really built an auto . . ."

"You are insane if you think you can build a

freakin' spaceship out of spare parts!"

I literally jumped up and down. "You thought of it

too," I said. "Great idea, isn't it? We can build a

rocket and get off this rock."

She was very tolerant. "Fly, an automobile is one

thing. You're talking about a spaceship."

I looked her straight in the eye. "After all we've

been through, you going to tell me we can't do this?"

She looked me straight back. "Read my lips," she

said. "We can not do this."

"We have nothing to lose, A.S. It can't be any

harder than taking down the spidermind, can it?"

"You have a point there," she said grudgingly. "So

how do you propose we start?"

She was always annoyed when I used reality to win

an argument. I knew it was possible. But not without

a manual.

"We need some tech," I said.

"Tech?"

"Plans . . . then we can give it to our design depart-

ment."

"Don't tell me ... I'm the design department."

I smiled. "You're the design department."

"And what are you, Fly Taggart?"

"Everything else."

We went looking for a manual. Ten minutes later we

found one in the most logical place, which was the last

place we looked, naturally: next to the coffee maker. I

tried to get Arlene to make us a pot of coffee, but she

stared at me as if I'd grown a third head.

So I made it myself; I'd forgotten that Arlene didn't

indulge, but that was all right with me. I figured since

I was the production line, I needed all the caffeine I

could survive.

Next we inventoried everything we had to work

with. Our best choice was to make a small mail rocket

intended for one person, but capable of seating two, if

they were really chummy. I wrote a list of parts

needed and found almost everything within three

hours . . . except for a thingamabob. I knew what it

was really called, but I couldn't think of it. We spent

another hour searching, and though we didn't come

across it, we located more tools that would be of

immeasurable value; a screwdriver, a drill bit, a

magnifying glass, and a paper punch.

"Enough for now," said Arlene. "I'm sure the

thingamabob will show up before we finish. We'd

better get started ... I have no idea how fast the air is

leaking from the dome; we might have a month, we

might have a couple of days!"

I wasn't going to argue with an optimistic Arlene.

Hell, I hardly ever argued with the pessimistic one.

"We haven't looked under all the tarps," I said, "and

there are other rooms to check too. But there is one

more shopping expedition required before we start

work. We need enough food and water to hold us

through the job; and all the spare liquid oxygen tanks

and hydrogen tanks we can find."

Arlene nodded. We were in a race with a bunch of

air molecules, and they had a head start. In addition

to oxygen for fuel, we actually needed to breathe now

and again over the next few days. Weeks, whatever. It

would be cruel fate indeed if I screwed the last bolt

and hammered the final wing nut, only to keel over

from oxygen deprivation.

My brain was working overtime now: "The pres-

sure is dropping so slowly, we're not going to notice

when it gets dangerous. Can you rig up something to

warn us when to start taking a hit of pure oxygen?"

"And regulate how much we should take. Yeah, it's

a space station ... I don't think I'll have much trou-

ble finding an air-pressure sensor and rebreather kit."

She pulled a gouge pad out of her shirt pocket and

started taking notes. She thought of something I'd

missed: "I'll look for warm clothes too, Fly. The

temperature will drop as we lose pressure."

"Won't the sun warm us? We're no farther away

than Earth itself."

"We're underground. All this dirt makes a great

insulator, unfortunately."

First day, we were good scouts, gathering supplies

for our merit badge in survival. I regretted that we

couldn't move what we needed to a lower level and

seal off one compartment. That would stretch survival

by another month. But hauling the tons of material

we'd need to build a rocket was impossible.

Arlene scrounged a generous supply of food, most

of it produced under the dome with considerable help

from the Genetics Department. After watching the

monsters produced assembly-line out of the vat, I

hesitated even to eat our own—human experiments

in recombinant-DNA veggies and lab-grown "Meet."

But Arlene wasn't queasy. She preferred the Deimos-

grown peas and carrots to the real delicacy, frozen

asparagus from Earth.

"I despise asparagus," she insisted.

"All right; so I hate okra." The slimy stuff was one

of my childhood loathings.

On the second day, we ran head-on into our first

lesson in Spaceship Construction 101: namely, trans-

lating the manual from "techie-talk" into English.

Here, what should we make of this?

The ZDS protocol provides reliable, flow-

controlled, two-way transmission of unenriched

fuel-cell packet deliverables from nozzle to sock-

et. It is a plasma stream (PLASM-STREAM) or

packet stream (SOCK-SEQFUELPACKET) pro-

tocol. ZDS uses the Union Aerospace Corpora-

tion double-sequencing directed stream format.

This format provides for nozzle, spray, and

extern-spray (socket) specification.

NOTE: see the definition for ZDS-redirect in

Section 38.12.

ACTIVE OR PASSIVE

Sockets utilizing the ZDS protocol are either

"active" or "passive." Nozzle processes must be

directed into passive (external spray) sockets.

They detect for connection requests from deliver-

able processes residing on the same or other

nodes of the fuel-cell packet path. Socket proc-

esses broadcast requests for active (directed

spray) nozzles. They sidestep nominal delivery in

favor of reverse-directed (acknowledging) packet

streams.

ALL CONNECTIONS BETWEEN NOZZLES

AND SOCKETS MUST BE SET TO DEFAULT

ACTIVE OR PASSIVE PROTOCOL DEPEND-

ING ON THE ANTICIPATED FUEL-CELL

PATH DELIVERY PROCESS.

WARNING! Failure to follow UAC active/passive

nozzle-socket connection protocols may result in

unanticipated fuel-cell path combustion with un-

desirable results.

I could translate the final warning pretty well: if we

didn't figure out what the hell they meant by

"active/passive nozzle-socket connection protocols,"

Arlene and I would become a rather spectacular

fireworks display.

Arlene was better at figuring it out than I was; she

had actually taken engineering night courses during

her shore tours. I volunteered the use of my hands

and a strong back if she'd turn the technical gobbledy-

gook into the kind of instructions a Marine can

follow: "Put this part here! Tighten that bolt, Ma-

rine!"

"Yeah, just like you to have the woman do all the

hard work," she said.

"Just remind me to clean the carburetor before I

work on the piston valves."

"It's not a car, you moron!"

"Huh. I guess in space no one can hear you make

metaphors." Amazingly, she didn't shoot me.

Unfortunately, the rockets used by the Deimos

facility—hence all the spare parts—were short-hop,

lightweight supply rockets, never intended to carry a

single human being, let alone two of us ... and never

intended to fight a gravity well like Earth's.

There were a couple large-bore rocket casings left

over from God knows when, back before we had the

MDM-44 plasma motors developed by Union Aero-

space, and this was the key: I figured I could hot-rod a

44 into & bigger cousin, cram it inside one of the old

casings, and have enough juice to fling us off Deimos,

burn into the atmosphere, and brake to a (messy)

landing Somewhere on Earth.

My main goal was to keep from blowing us up.

After frying our spider baby in JP-9 jet fuel, I had a

new respect for the stuff. It beat the hell out of salad

oil.

Arlene squatted on an uncomfortable stool translat-

ing technical paragraphs into something I could un-

derstand. My optimist projection was to finish the

task in ten days!

Reality dragged ass.

Starting our third week, we ran into the first serious

problem. Trying to jerry-rig parts we couldn't find

into configurations we couldn't figure out was a bitch,

and I insisted we needed to test-fire the motor when I

finally got a working model. We didn't have much

time, but the motor was life and death, a must test.

We'd spent two days painfully assembling it, and I do

mean "we." Arlene enjoyed an excuse to get off her

stool; besides, it was a two-man job.

We finally ended up with a sleek beauty two meters

long and a meter in diameter, almost small enough to

fit inside the old-model rocket skin. Just a few odd

pieces here and there where I thought I could super-

charge the system—or where I couldn't find the

correct part and had to Substitute butter for eggs. A

pair of start cables snaked into the machine from ten

feet away, where a switch box was connected to

twenty-seven fifty-volt ni-cad batteries.

I'd spent half a day welding steel bars together into

a framework, sort of, kind of approximating the

interior scaffolding in the mail tube. We bolted the

motor inside, mooring it securely to the deck plates.

Last, I attached a highly sensitive pressure sensor to

the forward edge to measure the thrust. I'd trust

Arlene to make the calculations and tell me whether

we would make it into orbit or not.

"Want to say a prayer?" she asked before I switched

it on.

"Yeah; I wasn't always in trouble with the nuns.

Maybe I can collect on a few good deeds." Arlene

stationed herself behind a bulkhead; I reached over

and flipped the switch, then dived behind cover.

Superheated gases rushed out the back with a

tremendous roar . . . and I could tell immediately it

was too much force; I'd tweaked my rocket engine too

good.

But I couldn't switch it off! It was just a model,

designed to burn until the fuel was gone; no cut-off

valve.

The scaffolding strained, groaning like a dying

steam demon—whoops, remind me later—and I

knew what was about to happen. "Get your head

down!" I screamed. No use—she couldn't hear any-

thing over the roar of the engine and the scream of

steel twisting and ripping free.

The mooring tore loose with a horrible, grinding

noise that for an instant even drowned out the 44. My

beautiful, working rocket engine broke free, ate the

pressure sensor with one gulp, and smashed through a

dozen boxes of precious parts before making a smok-

ing hole against the nearby bulkhead, leaving a per-

fectly straight series of holes, like a cartoon.

Destroying a bulkhead on a doomed base, or

even some spare parts, was no cause for alarm.

Destroying the motor was something else again.

Arlene screamed something obscene, but I couldn't

hear her over the ringing in my ears. We got off lucky.

It could have struck the JP-9 and ended everything.

After we extinguished the fire and salvaged what we

could of the motor, Arlene looked at me humorlessly.

"Flynn Taggart, what deviltry did you do to those

poor nuns?"

"Can you rephrase that, after what we've been

through?" We were both a little punchy, getting by on

shifts of four hours sleep. But no spiderminds were

trying to kill us, no imps throwing a wrench in the

machinery, no hell-princes setting fires worse than the

one we'd just put out. It felt like we were on vacation.

All right, to fill in a bit: an imp is what we dubbed

the brown, spiny, leathery alien that throws flaming

balls of mucus. Hell-princes looked like the typical

"devil" from my troubled youth in Catholic school—

red body, goat legs, horns, and they too threw some-

thing noxious that killed you real dead; we pretty

much decided it had to be an example of genetic

engineering, since it was too close to a human concep-

tion of evil.

We had also killed demons, which I privately called

pinkies, that were huge, pink, hairy critters with no

brains but an awful lot of teeth; flying, metallic skulls

with little rocket motors; invisible ghosts; and an

unbelievable horde of zombies—spiritually, they

were the worst, for oftener than not, they were our

own buddies and comrades at arms, "reworked" into

the living dead.

But the granddaddy monster of them all was the

steam-demon, so called because it was a five-meter-

tall mechanical monstrosity with a back rack full of

rockets and a launcher where its hand should have

been. When it moved, it sounded like a steam loco-

motive and shook the ground.

None of that was important compared to one fact:

Arlene had completely changed her mind about build-

ing the rocket. "I'm sorry I ever doubted you," she

said. "I guess it is possible."

But now I was the contrarian. "We did all the

calculations right, A.S. We checked and triple-

checked everything . . . How could the engine be so

much more powerful than we thought?"

She smiled. "Because they obviously deliberately

understated the capabilities in the technical

literature—probably for security reasons."

"So all our calculations are worthless crap. How are

you going to fly this thing?"

She didn't seem overly concerned. "Fly, the vehicle

hasn't been built that I can't pilot."

"Um . . . well, this rocket hasn't been built, has it?"

"You know what I mean! If you build it, I will fly. I

swear."

"Hm." I didn't know what to say. I had no idea

whether she was or wasn't a hot-shot rocket pilot. We

don't get much call for that in the Light Drop Infan-

try. But now that she believed in the rocket, nothing

was going to stop us.

There were other motor parts, and we patched

together something I figured was eighty percent ready.

There was no time for better. The air was growing

thinner and the temperature was dropping ... the

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v1.0ScannedandspellcheckedbyJaks(stillneedsproofreadingandformatting)1AswehittheroofofDeimos,Ilookedup.Thepressuredomewascracked.Ofcourse.Thatmadesense,thewaythingshadbeengoing.Nextthingyouknew,thousand-year-oldMartianswouldcomealongandwinkusoutofexistence.FlyTaggartstaredatthecrack,andhiseyesbugged...

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Dafydd ab Hugh & Brad Linaweaver - Doom 02 - Hell on Earth

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