Tranquility's Heirs

This is my story and is also published elsewhere.

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Tranquility's Heirs

Part One

An unwelcome lunar expedition ventures into danger

Energized by the generous reception of Tranquility Besieged, I am pleased to present the prequel, Tranquility's Heirs, where Grey and Kris meet for the first time. This science fiction novel was originally written so many decades ago that I don't want to confess it, so let's be kind. There is very little sex (though I tried to spice it up) and only minor nudity, so it can't be described as erotic. But it is a love story that builds up to passionate encounters over time. All characters are over 18 years old. All rights reserved by the author.

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NEW RANGER

In a darkened communications center, an anxious young man carefully adjusted the off-planet tracking unit. Anxious to avoid detection, he routed the relayed signal through several sub-systems before loading the broadcast into the Library Computer. Only after he was sure the higher function levels were not monitoring the activity did he open the observation channel.

"It's a beautiful morning here at the Malibu Institute of Space Technology," a smartly dressed newswoman said, gesturing to the bright California sky. "A perfect day to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the first Apollo moon landing. And as we count down the final hours before the big launch, these crowds continue to grow."

Grey recognized the speaker. It was Rusty Ferret, the W.B.C. news reporter, standing before a bustling crowd of sunbathers, many of whom were nearly naked. Behind her, he saw the familiar buildings of the Malibu Institute of Space Technology nestled in the Santa Monica Mountain foothills. The hues coming through the visual were remarkable. The deep blue sky. The great ocean beyond. The vivid colors of the bathing suits. Even the pink, peachy and brown skins of the bustling humans. So busy and happy. So unlike his own world.

"Most of these people have waited since six o'clock this morning for a promised appearance by Doctor Laureen McKinsey and the crew of shuttlecraft New Ranger," Ferret reported with evident excitement. "And as you can see, the national guard has dispatched several squads to reinforce the M.I.S.T. security corps." She pointed to a line of riot equipped troops and several armored cars. The contrast between the grim young soldiers and the carnival atmosphere around them was apparent even to Grey.

"Rusty? Is it true Congress-In-Council might still try to stop this mission?" Ferrert was asked by the W.B.C. anchor in Atlanta.

"Lots of rumors, Thelly, but few confirmed facts," the prim Ferret replied, raising her voice to overcome the surrounding commotion.

In the background, the people were making strange motions with their hands and faces, behaving quite wildly. One young female even took off her bathing top, to the evident approval of her peers. Ferret tried to say something else, paused to adjust her orange press tunic, and stepped closer to the camera.

"According to this latest report, Doctor McKinsey has obtained pledges of neutrality from the Coordinating Council of the Southern Alliance, insuring her access to high orbit," Ferret continued. "With her flight permit upheld by the Supreme Court, only an illegal action can stop her now. I doubt the Congress-In-Council will risk that, not after the sympathy aroused by the assassination of Captain Jeremiah Wong. And certainly the Council must realize, just as their opposition does, that this is going to be a very popular mission. After twelve years of setbacks, the peoples of the Northern Alliance want to be strong again. Have pride in our regions. Many think recapturing the moon is the way to do it. Wait a minute! Wait a minute! Here they come! I see Doctor McKinsey and her crew!"

As the crowd surged forward, Grey saw five people in bright yellow flight suits emerge from the administration building and form up behind a makeshift podium. The oldest of the group, a septuagenarian female with a bun of silver-gray hair and a long aristocratic nose, appeared to be in command. Next to her was a young well-proportioned female with long blonde hair who was holding hands with a tall athletic male. Near them stood two others, a middle-aged male with rugged features, and a smaller dark-haired female who appeared uncomfortable with the proceedings. As the audience applauded, the old female moved forward and held up her hands for attention. The focus of the monitor image moved in for a close-up.

"My dear friends," Laureen McKinsey announced, gracefully acknowledging the cheers that threatened to drown out her speech. "My dear friends, we go to the moon in good spirits and high hopes, to renew once more that pledge of peaceful cooperation made so long ago by my late husband, Governor Thomas McKinsey. Twenty years ago this month, my Tom was faced with a choice between war or rebellion. To defy our government's misplaced ambitions, or cooperate in a war that would destroy all he cherished most. We know now his choice was the correct one, that his dream of a unified world can only be fulfilled by a strict and uncompromising dedication to progress and free trade.

"With the Embargo Wars over at last, our people look outward once again. It's only fitting that the first adventure of this new era should be to reopen Tranquility, that splendid city on the moon where any dream may come true. Our shuttlecraft, privately owned and privately financed, is standing by. Our flight permit is confirmed. Our commitment unwavering. For my own part, I'm proud to lead this expedition and these brave young people into a better, brighter, more prosperous future. We thank you for your prayers, and for your good wishes. God bless you all."

"And God bless you, Laureen McKinsey!" a voice shouted.

The crowd cheered wildly as McKinsey and her crew disappeared back into the administration building, armed guards moving to block the doors when reporters attempted to ask questions.

"There you have it, Thelly," Rusty Ferret reported, reappearing on the monitor screen with an excited smile. "Doctor Laureen McKinsey and the heroic crew of shuttlecraft New Ranger now only two hours from launch."

Three hundred and eighty thousand kilometers away, Grey shut down the library station and glanced impatiently at the clock. The transmission was eighteen hours old, the launch successful. For the 4th time in twenty years, humans were coming to the moon, uninvited and unwelcome. So far, none had ever returned home. The young man was determined to change that.

____________

On the bridge of shuttlecraft New Ranger, Major Roger Vandebrown sat quietly at the communications station waiting for his transmission beam to link. After several frustrating attempts, the indicators finally showed ground contact.

"On schedule, Momma Four," he said, whispering into the decoder.

"Packet aboard?" a growling voice asked through crackling interference. Vandebrown hunched over to catch the muffled transmission.

"Affirmative, Momma Four. And the old broad doesn't suspect a thing," he confirmed.

"How are conditions?" the voice asked.

"Not exactly friendly, but they're tolerating me. Don't worry, I'll sideline my noble crewmates soon enough. Except that Val, of course. God what I'd like to do to her!" Vandebrown snickered.

"Don't screw around. The moment--"

Vandebrown heard a noise from the outside compartment and scrambled the transmission, leaning back to gaze out the cockpit window. With Earth behind him, all he saw was the moon and fields of stars. A moment later, the lean figure of Michael Zopek appeared in the bridge hatchway, his broad shoulders almost too wide for the narrow opening.

"Checking the goddamn boards again?" Mike asked. He glanced back into the rear compartment with an exasperated frown, then half floated and half crawled over the rear seats to the forward pilot's station.

"You can't know what it means, Colonel," Vandebrown explained. "An old space dog like me, out here again after all these years. Certainly you've no objections?"

"Sure, 'course not," Mike lied, buckling down and checking in with the on-board flight computer.

"You don't seem to like me very much?" Vandebrown asked good-naturedly. "Mind explaining why? We've never been enemies. Haven't even met more than a few times."

Mike continued to check the instrument panels, his large hands dancing lightly over the sensitive inputs. Just turned 30, with cropped brown hair and intense brown eyes, he studied the boards like a fighter pilot.

"Jeremiah Wong was a good friend," Mike finally said. "Don't know why Doc allowed you to take his place, and I sure don't know why you wanted to come, but Jerry punched your ticket."

"I was sorry to hear of Wong's murder, of course," Vandebrown said. "But my reasons for being here can't be all that much different than yours. A spirit of adventure. The chance to make a difference. Perhaps a touch of glory?"

"Hell of a reason to volunteer for a fucking suicide mission," Mike grunted. He paused, then slapped the arm of his chair before turning to face Vandebrown. "Look here, space dog, not that it's any of your goddamn business, but the only goddamn reason I'm here is because of my pigheaded wife! When McKinsey insisted on leading this fiasco herself, Val refused to let her come alone. I'm dragged in screaming."

"Suicide mission? Then what should I make of Captain Fairfield's presence?" Vandebrown asked. "From what I've heard, she's hardly the foolhardy type."

"Val and Kris are Doc's goddaughters. Once Val decided to go, there was no stopping Kris. Besides, she's qualified."

"Implying the rest of us aren't?" Vandebrown asked.

"Ain't implying nothing. Stating a fact."

"You surprise me. I'd say this crew is highly qualified," Vandebrown said.

"Yeah? How in god's underworld do you figure that? A seventy-year-old college president sure wouldn't be my first choice for flight commander. And even though my charming wife has a medical degree in her doctorate collection, she's never even been sky-birding, let alone on a combat mission. I'll admit you did an adequate job of guiding us through those orbitals, but no better than a dozen younger techs might have done. At least Kris is top rated. She didn't win her Congressional playing politics behind the lines."

"Point conceded," Vandebrown said. "McKinsey's old, Doctor Fairfield is inexperienced, and I lack membership in your smug little Malibu Mafia. But what of the famous Colonel Zopek? Surely you're qualified for this expedition."

"Hung up my wings after Africa," Mike sighed. "Rose Bowl victories and a beautiful wife may make big news for the tabloids, but it doesn't qualify me for jockeying lunar shuttles."

"And just who is qualified these days?" Vandebrown asked, floating out of his seat toward the rear of the bridge. "It's been twenty years since the last round trip. I doubt there's more than a few dozen qualified lunar pilots left in the entire world. But just for the record, Colonel, I'm one of them."

"You?" Mike said in surprise.

"I piloted the last shuttle out of Tranquility. 27 July, 2049," Vandebrown said, smiling in a way not intended to ingratiate himself. "A little weak on our mission history, aren't we? Well, that's all right. I guess we all can't be flaming geniuses."

"Yeah, I guess not," Mike said, turning back to the controls. "We're closing on final approach, better get up to the turret. And stay alert."

"Yes, sir," Vandebrown obeyed, disappearing through the hatch with a mock salute.

"Auto-pilot," Mike summoned. "Established contact with lunar control yet?"

"Negative," the on-board flight computer responded. "Lunar communications suppressed. Earth ground contact intermittent."

"Just great," Mike complained, pounding the console. "Continue scanning for hot spots."

"Acknowledged," the on-board flight computer confirmed.

Mike leaned back in the bucket seat and gazed out the viewport at the rapidly approaching lunar surface. If there was a strange, ancient beauty to the rock-strewn landscape, he chose to ignore it, seeing only a dead, foreboding war zone.

"All ground contact now suppressed," the on-board flight computer reported. "Earth contact terminated."

"Suppression source?" Mike requested.

"Tranquility Lunar Colony."

"Wonderful. Just wonderful. Where are all the goddamn flamin' geniuses when you need them?" Mike turned to glance back at the hatch, but there was still no sign of his missing crewmates.

A moment later, New Ranger's breaking thrusters activated and the shuttlecraft dipped into the northeast approach pattern, the flight plan designed to give them a long gliding drop over the Sea of Tranquility. With the seals weakened by launch stress and fuel nearly expended from maneuvering through Earth's orbital minefield, the small A-6 civilian transport descended with a desperation that would have unnerved most pilots. It certainly unnerved Zopek.

"Here we go," Mike announced into the intercom. "You people coming up here or what?"

"We'll be along in a minute, honey," the voice of his wife answered over the speaker.

"We'll be along in a minute!" Mike whispered, slamming the intercom. "Here we are on final approach and the ladies are powdering their noses! Hey, Mike, risk your life for love and glory! Okay, fine. Hey, Mike, why don't you pilot the ship? Sure, why not? Hey, Mike, jettison the sewage pack. Great. Famous war hero goes on perilous mission. For more medals? No. For commercial endorsements? Of course not. He goes because he can't talk his flamin' genius wife out of it! He's a retired half-bird colonel. Does he lead the mission? No. His wife's godmother is a goddamn flamin' genius, too! Where else could a handsome, popular, all-around great guy like me end up a cabin boy?"

"What are you saying, honey?" Valerie asked.

Mike turned to see his wife entering the bridge, her long sandy blonde hair tied back, a skintight flight suit showing off her famously endowed figure. In here late 20's, her movement was confident, her optimistic smile infectious.

"Quiet, you're interrupting my soliloquy," Mike answered.

"Your what?" Valerie laughed.

"Nothing, sweetie, just lamenting my woes."

"Oh, again?"

Mike frowned, then laughed. They kissed.

"Let's see, where was I? Oh yes, the cabin boy part," Mike said.

"Stop that!" Valerie complained, punching him in the shoulder. "You know it's not like that at all. Everyone thinks you're smart, and about practical things, too. It's not your fault you're best suited for menial labor."

"I'll show you menial labor!" Mike declared, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her into his lap.

"Oh no you don't!" she protested. "Last night in preflight is as adventuresome as I care to get. For now."

She giggled and pushed herself free, going to the environmental control station. Mike reluctantly returned his attention to the flight controls.

"We're closing on the flats. Better tell Doc we're reaching her code mark," Mike said.

"Aye, aye, skipper," Valerie said, checking her station before moving to the hatch.

"Oh, Mike?" she said with a pixyish afterthought. "I hear that lunar gravity offers unimaginable... possibilities." She wiggled her hips.

"Maybe I'll prove useful after all?" Mike grinned.

A moment after Valerie exited the cabin, Vandebrown's voice broke over the intercom.

"We've got trouble, Colonel!"

Mike adjusted his instrumentation to pick up Vandebrown's readings just as Captain Kris Fairfield quietly entered the bridge and buckled down at the tactical station. Though hardly unattractive, the dark-haired mission specialist displayed no evidence of her older sister's charisma. Her deliberate demeanor could easily be mistaken for a sullen personality.

"On my screens now, Major. How do you read it?" Mike asked.

"Hot spots all along the perimeter," Vandebrown reported. "Half a dozen laser batteries on the south side alone, and a missile emplacement bunkered on top of the ridge. Ground to orbit VLMs. I'd say they're preparing a warm reception for us."

"This shit's getting deeper by the minute," Mike said, pounding the intercom. "Hey, Doc! Get your damn butt up here on the double!"

He adjusted the auto control of the guidance system and prepared to heave the shuttle out of descent at the first sign of hostility.

"Ready, Kris?" Mike asked.

"Tactical online," she replied, calmly coordinating the on-board control systems. "Incoming detector systems engaged."

Mike glanced back at Kris, seeing her hands bounce across the instrument panels without fluster or hesitation. Some people never change, he thought.

"Okay. Reflectors up," Mike ordered.

"Reflectors up," Kris confirmed.

"Deploy shielding."

"Shielding deploying. Ninety degrees forward, eighty degrees flank."

"Emergency power to the wing jets. Channel for evasive action."

"Power transfers on," she assured.

"How much leeway have we got?" Mike asked.

"Out here over the flats?" Kris said with a grunt. "No place to go, no place to hide. Those canyons are a hundred kilometers off."

"Let's program two options. One to abort descent, another to run for that big crater to the north," Mike said.

"We'll do nothing of the sort," Dr. Laureen McKinsey said, entering the bridge with Valerie close behind. The aging patrician seated herself at the command station, her bony hands buckling down the waist harness as Valerie made sure the shoulder restraints were properly fitted.

"Status report, Michael," McKinsey barked, her voice sharp with the custom of unquestioned authority. "Later, young man, I intend to lecture you about your language."

"They're preparing a rough reception for us," Mike said. "Laser batteries warmed up. Interceptors activated. Communications suppressed. I say we get the hell out of here while there's still time."

"Don't be silly. Why haven't you established contact with Tranquility yet?" McKinsey asked.

"I don't think they like us," Mike growled.

McKinsey studied her own monitor, unperturbed by the wide range of defensive emplacements.

"Issue the following message sequence," she commanded, Irish green eyes twinkling with confidence. "Queen takes rook. Rook takes knight. Knight takes pawn. Check. Broadcast across the lower bands."

"Affirmative," Kris acknowledged, entering the code into the transmitter.

"Tranquility Lunar Colony dead ahead," Mike reported. "Plinius to port, Vitruvius beyond the ridge. Perimeter stations coming up on visual. We're committed, Doc. Shouldn't we try evasive maneuvering until they verify our entry code?"

"Maintain course and speed, Michael," McKinsey said. "Kris, open our hailing frequency."

"Hailing frequency open," Kris reported without hint of excitement.

"This is Doctor Laureen McKinsey," she announced. "We come in peace to renew the pledge of peaceful progress made so many years ago by my late husband, Governor Thomas McKinsey. I call upon the MC5000 Defense Computer to stand down and allow us safe entry."

The was no reply.

"I see it! I see Tranquility!" Valerie called out.

On the horizon, located at the base of a long spiny ridge running south from the impact crater Vitruvius, the feint image of the graceful White Towers appeared, the familiar landmark surrounded by a dozen smaller, less spectacular surface structures, many of which were connected by a network of heat-sealed gravel roads. Soon the perimeter defense stations became uncomfortably obvious, the power surges glowing brightly on New Ranger's tactical scanners.

Suddenly the monitors registered an intense power fluctuation and the readings disappeared.

"Zopek! Did you see that!" Vandebrown shouted over the intercom. "Southwest hot spots just fired out! They've shut down the laser batteries."