Voodoo Time Dot Com

So you might have noticed that I haven’t written much here in a week or two. I have a good excuse though. Really!

See, it all started when I received an urgent call from the President of the United States. “I’m sorry to call so late in the evening,” he began (it was 3:36 AM), “but this simply cannot wait until morning. I received word at oh-two-thirty hours, that we have lost all communication with our secret lunar base. The status and whereabouts of our colonists are unknown. I’m afraid I must ask you to undertake another dangerous mission for your country.”

“No dice, Mr. President,” I answered. “I retired last year after the Delta Incursion. My walking papers are stamped all the way to the top. With all due respect, sir, not even the President of the United States can put me back on one of those confounded ETCs (Extraplanetary Transport Craft) again.”

“I’m not asking as your President, Justis,” he replied, desperation betraying his previously solemn tone, “I’m asking as your friend.” Twenty minutes later I was in a chopper headed to Groom Lake.

Again.

Our black helicopter touched down on the unlit helipad, and I exited, instinctively ducking my head to keep below the rotor wash. My trenchcoat was still flapping wildly in the synthetic wind as the all-too-familiar manila envelope was pressed into one hand, and a mug of steaming coffee into the other. You can probably guess for which I was more grateful. Slowly infusing my blood with caffeine, I walked through door after door; my entourage waning with each elevation in mandatory security clearance. Soon I was alone before a pleasant mahogany door with a brass handle. My verification implant triggered the actuator, and I turned the knob.

I will not go into much detail about the briefing that ensued - partially because I don’t want to waste your time, but mostly because I’m not allowed to divulge enough of what was discussed to make it understandable. Suffice it to say that after exactly thirty-eight minutes of the most boring and amateur PowerPoint presentation in history, I had my orders.

Travel to Lunar base Alpha. Rendezvous with auxilliary force. Ascertain status of Alpha colonists and report. Do not engage.

I tucked the map into a pocket, and excused myself to the staging area, where the techs helped me into my vacuum suit. I chuckled in spite of myself when they strapped my weapon to the suit. For some reason I still think it’s funny that when my orders say “Do not engage”, I’m still always issued a weapon. What isn’t funny, is that I’ve had to use it each time. Suited up, and sealed for freshness, it was time to go. Elevator up, across the catwalk, through the portal (watch your head), strap in, and wait. And wait. Just as I began questioning the wisdom of that third cup of coffee, the engines roared to life, shaking like all hell was breaking loose. I whispered my customary prayer to whatever god might hear me as the acceleration pressed me harder and harder into my seat. Lift-off always brings to mind that quote by President Reagan about “slipp[ing] the surly bonds of Earth” and all. Sort of makes one feel like a hero. But this time I remembered that those guys blew up all over the Gulf of Florida, and I stopped feeling all heroic. Once we cleared the outer atmosphere, and the cacaphony subsided, I promptly fell asleep.

“Rise and shine, moon man,” cracked some wiseass in Houston. The trouble with the radio in an ETC is that it only plays one channel. And you can’t turn it off. “You’ve got 15 minutes. Dress warm.” Where did they get this guy?

As advertised, 15 minutes later, the retrorockets were firing, and I suffered the bone-jarring thud of yet another graceless moon landing. I clicked my helmet into place, and stepped out onto the surface of the moon. One small step for a man. No giant leaps. Giant leaps on the moon shoot you 12 to 15 feet straight up. Not a great way to remain inconspicuous. The best way to move around on the moon is to sort of skip. So with my blaster at the ready, I skipped toward the airlock. It’s surprisingly hard to feel like a badass when you’re skipping.

The doors slid open, then shut behind me. The thing about moon bases is that they really aren’t built to keep people out - on account of there being no life there other than what we import ourselves. With my atmospheric sensors reporting acceptable conditions, I removed my helmet and proceeded down a long hallway. When I finally reached the end, I gripped my gun and punched the master entry code into the keypad. The door opened…

And everyone was fine. They invited me in, and we had tea and cake. It turns out that the new guy yanked the batteries from the transmitter to power his Gameboy. Boy was his face red.

Bye for now.

This entry was posted on Sunday, January 25th, 2004 at 12:22 am and is filed under Weird. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.