The formal entrance to Shepardsport was quiet today. Not surprising given the current situation, but Payton Shaw wasn’t used to having such complete privacy for his annual observance. Of course there wasn’t complete silence — no shirtsleeve environment on the Moon was ever completely silent, although the various fans and other devices to keep the air breathable could be made extremely quiet.
On the other hand, the place was now clean, with nothing to distract from the significance of this place. Payton remembered when he first arrived up here, when it was still stacked with boxes and bins unless there were a formal ceremony. Now the floor remained clear and polished at all times, the squid emblem of Shepardsport on display for all to see.
Payton approached the Wall of Honor, the three slabs of polished basalt flanked by the US and NASA flags, which was the real focal point of the room. In another place and time, the fallen might be honored by elaborate monuments with sculptures of marble and bronze. Here there was nothing but columns of names engraved in stone, a memorial that reinforced the gravity of what was remembered here in the spartan severity of its presentation.
Often people would touch the names of friends or family members who had given their lives in the pursuit of spaceflight. Although the lunar basalt was regularly shined, Payton could see a few fingerprints, especially on particularly famous names.
However, the name he was looking for was relatively recent. Payton knelt to look more closely at it — his clone-brother, Gavin Etlund.
Sometimes it seemed like yesterday — the growing tension, the horrible row in the dining commons and Gavin racing out after his girlfriend, pleading with her not to do anything rash. Other times it seemed like another lifetime, standing vigil outside Medlab as Dr. Thuc desperately tried to save Gavin’s life, to stabilize him enough that he could survive being transported up to Gagarinsk, where Colonel Grigorenko had arranged for him to receive regeneration.
Gavin was honored here, but only by name. One simply did not speak of the young woman whose life he’d tried to save. Never mind that it was pretty well agreed that Clarissa Munroe had had a bad case of undiagnosed Earth Separation Anxiety Disorder, and that her desperation led her to believe that if she just screwed up badly enough, she could be sent back home, never mind the Writ of Expulsion against her. Her actions had endangered not only herself and Gavin, but potentially the entire settlement, and as a result no sympathy toward her could be tolerated, lest it appear to excuse her actions.
It was a harsh damnato memoria, but uncomfortable as Payton was about it, he knew better than try to buck it. Up here, the margins of survival were too thin.
As he rose, Payton realized he was not alone. He turned to face the gray-haired man with the craggy good looks of Deke Slayton, the “forgotten” Mercury astronaut.
Payton’s mind raced with questions he dared not air in this sacred space. Colonel Hearne? What’re you doing here?
Bill Hearne just gave Payton a stern look, an unmistakable Wait. I want to talk to you.
Payton gave him a polite nod and retreated to the corridor while the older man paid his own respects. He’d come all too close to having his name on that wall himself: the rescue of the crew of the Falcon had been a close-run thing, still talked about in awed tones three decades later.
The longer Payton waited, the more he wondered just what Bill Hearne wanted with him. Was he in trouble? After all, getting down here meant going through the port facilities, and that meant being seen by the pilot-astronauts. And Bill Hearne had been the one to lay down the law that terrible night, using his authority as the last commander of the Falcon.
On the other hand, the name Hearne was looking at was clearly much higher on the wall. Maybe one of his friends who’d died in the NASA Massacre, back in the Energy Wars? He’d been commanding American Eagle that day, doing repairs on a spy satellite, and it had always bothered him that he was above it all while terrorists were rampaging through Johnson Space Center, shooting up offices and murdering astronauts and support staff.
Finally Hearne completed whatever personal memorial he needed to perform and walked back out to join Payton in the corridor. “I’m rather surprised to see you down here tonight, Mr. Shaw. I thought you had quite a bit of work to do these days.”
Payton’s gut twisted in ill-ease. What was with the formal address? And why the indirection?
On the other hand, if he were in trouble, the last thing he wanted to do right now was say or do anything that could look defensive. Keep on his guard, but maintain the appearance that he was taking the greeting and question at face value, as politeness, not accusation.
He chose his words with care, hoping that it wouldn’t make him look deceitful. “I do, sir, but today I needed to honor someone’s memory.”
Hearne nodded, a curt movement of the chin up, then down. “We may soon have a lot more memories to honor.”
Something’s seriously wrong here. Payton studied Col. Hearne’s expression, seeking any hint of what was going on. He decided to take a risk, based on some things Autumn Belfontaine had said at the recent all-hands staff meeting at the station. “It’s pretty bad down there, isn’t it?”
“NASA’s trying to keep it quiet, but that damn bug’s gotten into Johnson, and I’m hearing scuttlebutt that they’re having trouble keeping critical operations staffed.”
Payton considered that information. Why would someone so senior be sharing it with someone as lowly as himself? Might it be a test, to see whether Payton could exercise discretion with a choice bit of RUMINT? “That’s not good.” He spoke those three words with deliberate care, hoping it would convey that he understood both the gravity of the situation being described and the significance of being given the information.
“No, it’s not. You work logistics, so I’ll leave the full implications as an exercise for your edification.”
There was a finality in those words that made it clear the conversation was at a close. Make it definite, this was some kind of test — and Payton had absolutely no idea what.
“Uh, thanks, sir.” Payton hoped he sounded reasonably enthusiastic about being handed this puzzle. He certainly didn’t feel like it.
Conversation completed, Col. Hearne made a sharp turn back to the pilot-astronauts’ offices, leaving Payton to make his own way back to Dunwich Sector and his apartment.
Something’s going on, and I need to find out what, without letting it get noised about that I know just how bad things are getting dirtside.
Damn. He almost wished that Col. Hearne had given his ears a blistering about Clarissa Munroe.