Artemis by Andy Weir
I used duct tape to cover all identifying marks on my EVA gear. Serial numbers, license number, the big patch reading J. BASHARA on the front…that sort of thing. Then I brought Hibby back online. He perked right up.
Under my instruction, Hibby crawled down the arc of Conrad’s hull to the airlock. He turned the crank to open the outer door. Then he dropped to the ground, nosed his way in, and shut the door behind him. He turned the crank again, sealing the door, then came over to the inner door.
I watched my little buddy through the round porthole window as he grabbed the manual valves to let air from Artemis into the airlock. A quick hiss, then the airlock had equalized with the city. Hibby turned the inner door’s crank and opened it up.
I stepped into the airlock and patted him on the head. “Good boy.” I powered him down and stowed him in a locker in the antechamber, along with his remote.
Well. There it was. An airlock all ready for use and the control panel was none the wiser. I flipped off the control panel just to assert dominance. It didn’t seem impressed.
I suited up. I timed myself, of course. It’s an EVA master thing. I took eleven minutes. Damn. How did Bob do it in three? The guy was a freakin’ prodigy.
I fired up the suit’s systems. Everything came online just as it should. I ran a pressure test. As instructed, the suit over-pressurized a little and monitored its status. This was the best way to check for leaks. No problems.
I stepped into the airlock, sealed the inner door, and started the cycle. Once it was done, I opened the outer door.
Good morning, Moon!
It’s not dangerous to do a solo EVA, in and of itself. EVA masters do it all the time. But I was doing an EVA in secret. No one even knew I’d be out there. If I had a problem, no one would think to look for me. There’d just be a very attractive dead body out on the surface for however long it took someone to notice.
I made sure my microphone was off, but left the receiver on to the public EVA channel. If someone else ventured outside I’d damn well want to know about it.
My two oxygen tanks had sixteen hours of oxygen total. And I’d brought six more tanks with eight hours each. Way more than I’d need (I hoped), but I was playing it safe.
Well…I can’t quite say “playing it safe” when I’m on an EVA and planning to fire up a welding torch on a moving rock harvester. But you know what I mean.
My CO2-removal system reported green status, which was good, because I don’t like dying. In the old days, astronauts needed expendable filters to collect CO2. Modern suits sort the CO2 molecules out through some complicated use of membranes and the vacuum outside. I don’t know the details, but it works as long as the suit has power.
I checked my suit readouts again and made sure all the values were in the safe range. Never count on your suit’s alarms to warn you. They’re well designed, but they’re the last resort. Safety begins with the operator.
I took a deep breath, hoisted the duffel over one shoulder, and got to walking.
—
First I had to walk all the way around the city. Conrad’s airlock faced north, and Sanchez Aluminum’s smelter was south. That took me a good twenty minutes.
Then it took me two hours to get to the smelter-reactor complex a kilometer away. It was disconcerting to see Artemis recede into the distance. Hey, look, it’s the only place for humans to survive on this whole rock. Wave goodbye!
I finally made it to the base of what we call the Berm.
When they designed Artemis, someone said, “What if there’s an explosion at the reactor? It’s, like, a thousand meters from town? That’d be bad, right?” A bunch of nerds furrowed their brows and pondered this. Then one of them said, “Well…we could put a bunch of dirt in the way?” They gave him a promotion and a parade.
I embellished the details there, but you get my point. The Berm protects the city from the reactors in the event of an explosion. Though the hulls would probably do that just fine. It’s all about redundant safety. Interestingly, we don’t need protection from radiation. If the reactors ever melt down it won’t matter. The city is shielded all to hell.
I sat down and rested at the base of the Berm. I’d had a long walk and needed a rest.
I turned my head inside the helmet, bit a nipple (try not to get excited), and sucked some water out. The suit’s temperature systems also chilled the water. Hey, I spent a lot of money on that suit. It was quality gear when it wasn’t malfunctioning and ruining my guild exam.
I gave a mighty grunt and started climbing. Five meters at a 45-degree angle. It might not seem like much, especially in lunar gravity. But when you’re wearing a hundred kilograms of EVA suit and hauling another fifty of equipment, believe me, it’s work.
I wheezed, gasped, and swore my way up the Berm. I think I invented some new profanities, I’m not sure. Is “fusumitch” a word? I finally made it to the top and surveyed the lands beyond.
The reactors lived in irregular-shaped buildings. Dozens of pipes led away to hundreds of shiny thermal panels lying on the ground.
Reactors on Earth dump heat into lakes or rivers. We’re a bit dry here on the moon, so we dump our heat via infrared light emitted into space. It’s century-old technology, but we haven’t come up with anything better.
The smelting facility sat two hundred meters from the reactors. It was a mini bubble thirty meters across, with a hopper on one side. The hopper ground rocks into a coarse grit and put it in sealed cylindrical containers. The containers were sealed into pipes, which forced them into the facility with air pressure. Like an old-school pneumatic tube system from the 1950s. If you’re going to have a bunch of air pumps and vacuum-management systems in your facility anyway, you may as well take advantage of them.
The train airlock stood on the other side of the bubble. The train tracks leading to it diverged into two lines. One ran to the airlock, the other to the unmanned silo car that transported rocket fuel to the port.
I dropped a couple of meters down the Berm and found a position where I could lie back and watch the scene. I had no idea what kind of schedule the harvesters had, so I would just have to wait.
And wait.
And fucking wait.
If you’re curious, there were exactly fifty-seven rocks within reach. I sorted them from smallest to largest, then changed my mind and sorted them from most spherical to least spherical. Then I tried making a regolith castle, but it ended up being more of a lump. Regolith particles are barbed and they stick together well, but there’s only so much you can do with EVA gloves. I could just about manage little half-spheres of dirt. I made a scale model of Artemis.
All told, I waited four hours.
Four. Goddamn. Hours.
Finally, I caught a glint of sunlight on the horizon. A harvester returning to port! Thank God. I stood and prepared the duffel for travel again. (I’d alphabetized my equipment out of boredom, first in English, then in Arabic.)
I hopped down the Berm. The harvester and I converged on the smelter from different directions. I got there first.
I crept around the bubble to stay out of sight of the harvester’s cameras. No real reason to do that—it’s not like anyone would be watching the feeds. I continued along the bubble wall until I got sight of the harvester. There it was, in all its giant shiny glory.
The harvester backed up to the hopper, latched into place, and slowly raised the front of its basin.
Thousands of kilograms of ore tumbled into the hopper. A brief cloud of dust accompanied the avalanche but almost immediately disappeared. No air to keep it afloat.
Having taken a good dump, the basin returned to level and the harvester sat idle. Mechanical arms reached out to attach the charging cable and coolant lines. I wasn’t sure how long it would take to recharge, but I wasted no time.
“One million slugs,” I said.
I climbed up the side of the harvester and threw my gear into the basin. Then I dropped into the basin myself. Easy enough.
I expected a long
wait during the recharge, but it only took five minutes. I have to hand it to Toyota, they know how to make rapid-recharge batteries. The harvester lurched forward and just like that, we were on our way.
My plan was working! I giggled like a little girl. Hey, I’m a girl, so I’m allowed. And besides, no one was watching. I pulled an aluminum stock rod from the duffel, climbed to the top of the harvester, and held it out like a sword. “Onward, mighty steed!”
Onward we went. The harvester headed southwest toward the Moltke Foothills at the breakneck speed of five kilometers per hour.
I watched the smelter bubble and reactors disappear in the distance and grew uneasy again. Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t the farthest I’d been from the Shire or anything. The train to the Visitor Center is over forty kilometers. But this was the farthest I’d ever been from safety.
The landscape grew rocky and jagged as we entered the foothills. The harvester didn’t even slow down. It might not have been fast but damn, it had torque.
We hit the first of many boulders and I almost flew out of the basin. I barely kept all my gear inside. Harvesters are not luxury cars. How did the rocks even stay put on the trip back? The harvesters must’ve been a little more cautious on their way home. Still, the bumpy ride was better than walking. That incline would have killed me.
Finally, we leveled off and things got smooth again. I pushed the duffel off of me and climbed back to the top. We’d made it to the collection zone.
The wide, flat plain had been denuded of rocks over years of harvesting. Good. Finally some smooth sailing. The cleared area was roughly a circle. I spotted three other harvesters at the clearing’s edge, scooping rocks into their basins. My harvester rumbled to the edge and dropped its scoop.
I tossed my gear out of the basin and hopped after it. At this point there was no way to avoid nav cameras. I just had to hope some Sanchez employee hadn’t randomly decided to bring up the feeds to impress his girlfriend.
I collected the gear and dragged it under the harvester with me.
The first step was to attach myself and my gear to the undercarriage. Harvesters don’t stay still for long and I didn’t want to scurry after it. I upended the duffel to prep my equipment.
First was the tarp. It was heavy, fiber-reinforced plastic with grommets in the corners so you could tie it down. I laced nylon rope through the grommets and affixed it to some jack-points on the hull. Now I had a hammock. I crawled into my new secret lair and pulled my welding equipment up with me.
The harvester lurched forward. I guess it had loaded some rocks into its basin and decided to move forward for another bite. I had no warning because, hey, no sound. A minor inconvenience—I hadn’t loaded the spare oxygen tanks into my hammock yet.
I looked over to the spare tanks. Okay. Not the end of the world. I could come back later to—
A huge boulder, destabilized by the fresh hole at its base, tipped forward onto the tanks. A pathetic fart of air escaped from underneath, briefly kicking up dust. Then there was nothing. And that was the end of my reserve air tanks.
“Oh, come on!” I yelled.
I took a moment to calculate how fucked I was.
I checked my arm readout. Six hours of oxygen left in the main supply. Two more hours in the emergency reserve. I had another tank for welding. I could attach it to my suit’s universal valve, but that would defeat the purpose of the whole trip. I needed that oxygen for my nefarious plans.
So, eight hours of breathable air. Was this still doable?
Artemis was three kilometers away. The trip had a lot of rough terrain but it was also downhill. Call it two hours.
My original plan had been to wait until night (clock-night I mean, not actual lunar night) and then sneak in when everyone was asleep. But I didn’t have enough air to wait that long. I’d have to enter in the middle of the day.
New plan: the ISRO airlock. It led into Space Agency Row in Armstrong Bubble. There’d be a few confused nerds and someone might say “um…” but I’d just keep walking. With the sun visor down, no one would see my face. And, unlike the Conrad airlock, it wouldn’t be littered with EVA masters.
Okay, problem sorta solved. That meant I had six hours before I had to leave the collection area. Ninety minutes per harvester. Time to hustle.
I got as comfortable as I could in my hammock and assembled the welding gear. I laid the acetylene and oxygen tanks between my legs to keep them stable. On the harvester’s undercarriage, I eyeballed ten centimeters from the coolant valve and scratched a three-centimeter circle there with a screwdriver. That’s where I had to cut.
I flipped down my helmet’s sun visor. I’d duct taped a welding lens shade to the middle. I cranked the acetylene valve, set the torch mixture to ignition mode, sparked it, and—
…it didn’t start.
Um.
I tried again. Nothing. Not even sparks.
I checked the acetylene tank. No flow problems. What the hell?
I flipped up the visor and inspected the sparker. Dad taught me to use a flint sparker because an electric one is “another thing to break.” It was just a piece of flint and steel grooves attached to a springy handle. Nothing complicated about it. This was thousand-year-old technology we’re talking about here. Why wasn’t it working?
Oh.
Right.
When flint strikes steel, it knocks microscopic flecks of metal into the air. The metal burns because of some complicated crap related to surface area and oxidization rates. Basically, it rusts so fast that the reaction heat makes fire.
Fun fact: Oxidizing requires oxygen. Flint and steel won’t work in a vacuum. All right. No need to panic. A welding flame is just acetylene and oxygen on fire. I adjusted the valves and set the mixture to be a trickle of acetylene amongst a torrent of oxygen. Then I scraped the sparker right in front of the nozzle.
Sparks! Boy did they ever fly! That oxygen made the metal flecks go apeshit. But I’d got too far. There wasn’t enough acetylene to ignite the flame itself. I added a bit more to the mix and tried again.
This time, the shower of sparks managed to light a sputtering, inconsistent flame. I spun the valves back to a normal mix and the flame settled into a familiar, stable shape.
I breathed a sigh of relief and flipped my visor down. I held the torch steady despite the clunky EVA suit. Pain in the ass. But at least I didn’t have to deal with molten metal. This was a cut, not a join. When you cut, you aren’t melting metal. You actually turn it into an oxidized gas. Yeah, it’s that hot.
The actual cutting was a lot easier than I expected. It took less than a minute. The little three-centimeter circle of steel plopped down on my chest, followed by a blob of molten wax. The wax bubbled and re-hardened almost instantly.
My positioning was perfect. I’d cut into the wax reservoir without nicking the coolant lines nearby. I didn’t care about the health of the coolant system, but I didn’t want the harvester to call home about a coolant leak. The small daub of wax that fell on me wouldn’t be enough loss to worry the harvester. At least, I hoped not.
I pulled a pressure valve from my duffel. I’d bought six of them from Tranquility Bay Hardware the day before (one per harvester and two spares). Standard pressure connector on one side, three centimeters raw pipe on the other. I jammed the connector into the hole. I’d done well on my cut—it was a snug fit. I fired up the torch again (with the same oxygen-crazy ignition mix as last time) and grabbed a rod of stock aluminum. I needed a strong, airtight seal around the valve.
I’d done a million valve installations with Dad as a kid. But never in an EVA suit. And unlike the cut, this time I was melting stock metal to make a seal.
If I screwed up, a blob of molten metal would fall on me and bore a hole straight through my suit. Holes in EVA suits are bad.
I got as far to the side as I could—if I screwed up, maybe the Aluminum Droplet of Doom would miss me. I got to work and watched the aluminum puddle grow. The droplet trembled along th
e weld site, then finally seeped upward into the crack above it. My heartbeat returned to somewhere near normal. Thank God for surface tension and capillary action.
I was careful, and took my time. I worked around the valve slowly, trying to keep my body from being directly underneath. Finally, I finished the deed.
I’d installed a pressure valve into the wax reservoir. Now it was time for the dastardly part of my plan.
I attached the line from my welding oxygen tank to the valve and cranked the flow to full.
Sure, the reservoir was full of wax, but there were gaps. And believe me, when you blow fifty atmospheres of air into a pressure vessel, it finds the gaps. Once the tank equalized with the compartment, I very carefully closed the valve and disconnected the tank line.
I slid out from under the harvester. I watched it for a second to make sure the damn thing wasn’t about to move. I don’t like making the same mistake twice.
The scoop crunched forward, grabbed a few hundred rocks, and dropped them in the basin. It reached down for another bite. Okay, I had time to climb aboard.
I hopped on the nearby wheel and hoisted myself onto the frame. I reached the breaker box and opened the little door. Inside, it was just like Trond’s harvester’s breaker box, with the same four lines connecting to it. Not a surprise—they were the same model. Still, I unclenched a little upon seeing it.
Harvesters have breakers all over to stave off electrical problems, but the last line of defense is the main breaker. All power runs through it. It’s the “fuse” that protects the battery.
I pulled a homemade contraption from my duffel. It consisted of two jumper-cable clamps on thick-gauge wire, which led to a high-voltage relay switch. The relay was wired into the buzzer on a battery-powered alarm clock. Simple as that. The relay would trip when the clock’s alarm went off. Not exactly rocket science, and it sure as hell wasn’t pretty, but it would work.
I connected the positive and negative poles of the main power line with my contraption. Nothing happened, of course. The relay was open. But once the alarm went off (set for midnight that evening), the relay would close and the battery would short out. And the short would bypass the breaker box entirely, so the normal fail-safes wouldn’t work.
Under my instruction, Hibby crawled down the arc of Conrad’s hull to the airlock. He turned the crank to open the outer door. Then he dropped to the ground, nosed his way in, and shut the door behind him. He turned the crank again, sealing the door, then came over to the inner door.
I watched my little buddy through the round porthole window as he grabbed the manual valves to let air from Artemis into the airlock. A quick hiss, then the airlock had equalized with the city. Hibby turned the inner door’s crank and opened it up.
I stepped into the airlock and patted him on the head. “Good boy.” I powered him down and stowed him in a locker in the antechamber, along with his remote.
Well. There it was. An airlock all ready for use and the control panel was none the wiser. I flipped off the control panel just to assert dominance. It didn’t seem impressed.
I suited up. I timed myself, of course. It’s an EVA master thing. I took eleven minutes. Damn. How did Bob do it in three? The guy was a freakin’ prodigy.
I fired up the suit’s systems. Everything came online just as it should. I ran a pressure test. As instructed, the suit over-pressurized a little and monitored its status. This was the best way to check for leaks. No problems.
I stepped into the airlock, sealed the inner door, and started the cycle. Once it was done, I opened the outer door.
Good morning, Moon!
It’s not dangerous to do a solo EVA, in and of itself. EVA masters do it all the time. But I was doing an EVA in secret. No one even knew I’d be out there. If I had a problem, no one would think to look for me. There’d just be a very attractive dead body out on the surface for however long it took someone to notice.
I made sure my microphone was off, but left the receiver on to the public EVA channel. If someone else ventured outside I’d damn well want to know about it.
My two oxygen tanks had sixteen hours of oxygen total. And I’d brought six more tanks with eight hours each. Way more than I’d need (I hoped), but I was playing it safe.
Well…I can’t quite say “playing it safe” when I’m on an EVA and planning to fire up a welding torch on a moving rock harvester. But you know what I mean.
My CO2-removal system reported green status, which was good, because I don’t like dying. In the old days, astronauts needed expendable filters to collect CO2. Modern suits sort the CO2 molecules out through some complicated use of membranes and the vacuum outside. I don’t know the details, but it works as long as the suit has power.
I checked my suit readouts again and made sure all the values were in the safe range. Never count on your suit’s alarms to warn you. They’re well designed, but they’re the last resort. Safety begins with the operator.
I took a deep breath, hoisted the duffel over one shoulder, and got to walking.
—
First I had to walk all the way around the city. Conrad’s airlock faced north, and Sanchez Aluminum’s smelter was south. That took me a good twenty minutes.
Then it took me two hours to get to the smelter-reactor complex a kilometer away. It was disconcerting to see Artemis recede into the distance. Hey, look, it’s the only place for humans to survive on this whole rock. Wave goodbye!
I finally made it to the base of what we call the Berm.
When they designed Artemis, someone said, “What if there’s an explosion at the reactor? It’s, like, a thousand meters from town? That’d be bad, right?” A bunch of nerds furrowed their brows and pondered this. Then one of them said, “Well…we could put a bunch of dirt in the way?” They gave him a promotion and a parade.
I embellished the details there, but you get my point. The Berm protects the city from the reactors in the event of an explosion. Though the hulls would probably do that just fine. It’s all about redundant safety. Interestingly, we don’t need protection from radiation. If the reactors ever melt down it won’t matter. The city is shielded all to hell.
I sat down and rested at the base of the Berm. I’d had a long walk and needed a rest.
I turned my head inside the helmet, bit a nipple (try not to get excited), and sucked some water out. The suit’s temperature systems also chilled the water. Hey, I spent a lot of money on that suit. It was quality gear when it wasn’t malfunctioning and ruining my guild exam.
I gave a mighty grunt and started climbing. Five meters at a 45-degree angle. It might not seem like much, especially in lunar gravity. But when you’re wearing a hundred kilograms of EVA suit and hauling another fifty of equipment, believe me, it’s work.
I wheezed, gasped, and swore my way up the Berm. I think I invented some new profanities, I’m not sure. Is “fusumitch” a word? I finally made it to the top and surveyed the lands beyond.
The reactors lived in irregular-shaped buildings. Dozens of pipes led away to hundreds of shiny thermal panels lying on the ground.
Reactors on Earth dump heat into lakes or rivers. We’re a bit dry here on the moon, so we dump our heat via infrared light emitted into space. It’s century-old technology, but we haven’t come up with anything better.
The smelting facility sat two hundred meters from the reactors. It was a mini bubble thirty meters across, with a hopper on one side. The hopper ground rocks into a coarse grit and put it in sealed cylindrical containers. The containers were sealed into pipes, which forced them into the facility with air pressure. Like an old-school pneumatic tube system from the 1950s. If you’re going to have a bunch of air pumps and vacuum-management systems in your facility anyway, you may as well take advantage of them.
The train airlock stood on the other side of the bubble. The train tracks leading to it diverged into two lines. One ran to the airlock, the other to the unmanned silo car that transported rocket fuel to the port.
I dropped a couple of meters down the Berm and found a position where I could lie back and watch the scene. I had no idea what kind of schedule the harvesters had, so I would just have to wait.
And wait.
And fucking wait.
If you’re curious, there were exactly fifty-seven rocks within reach. I sorted them from smallest to largest, then changed my mind and sorted them from most spherical to least spherical. Then I tried making a regolith castle, but it ended up being more of a lump. Regolith particles are barbed and they stick together well, but there’s only so much you can do with EVA gloves. I could just about manage little half-spheres of dirt. I made a scale model of Artemis.
All told, I waited four hours.
Four. Goddamn. Hours.
Finally, I caught a glint of sunlight on the horizon. A harvester returning to port! Thank God. I stood and prepared the duffel for travel again. (I’d alphabetized my equipment out of boredom, first in English, then in Arabic.)
I hopped down the Berm. The harvester and I converged on the smelter from different directions. I got there first.
I crept around the bubble to stay out of sight of the harvester’s cameras. No real reason to do that—it’s not like anyone would be watching the feeds. I continued along the bubble wall until I got sight of the harvester. There it was, in all its giant shiny glory.
The harvester backed up to the hopper, latched into place, and slowly raised the front of its basin.
Thousands of kilograms of ore tumbled into the hopper. A brief cloud of dust accompanied the avalanche but almost immediately disappeared. No air to keep it afloat.
Having taken a good dump, the basin returned to level and the harvester sat idle. Mechanical arms reached out to attach the charging cable and coolant lines. I wasn’t sure how long it would take to recharge, but I wasted no time.
“One million slugs,” I said.
I climbed up the side of the harvester and threw my gear into the basin. Then I dropped into the basin myself. Easy enough.
I expected a long
My plan was working! I giggled like a little girl. Hey, I’m a girl, so I’m allowed. And besides, no one was watching. I pulled an aluminum stock rod from the duffel, climbed to the top of the harvester, and held it out like a sword. “Onward, mighty steed!”
Onward we went. The harvester headed southwest toward the Moltke Foothills at the breakneck speed of five kilometers per hour.
I watched the smelter bubble and reactors disappear in the distance and grew uneasy again. Don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t the farthest I’d been from the Shire or anything. The train to the Visitor Center is over forty kilometers. But this was the farthest I’d ever been from safety.
The landscape grew rocky and jagged as we entered the foothills. The harvester didn’t even slow down. It might not have been fast but damn, it had torque.
We hit the first of many boulders and I almost flew out of the basin. I barely kept all my gear inside. Harvesters are not luxury cars. How did the rocks even stay put on the trip back? The harvesters must’ve been a little more cautious on their way home. Still, the bumpy ride was better than walking. That incline would have killed me.
Finally, we leveled off and things got smooth again. I pushed the duffel off of me and climbed back to the top. We’d made it to the collection zone.
The wide, flat plain had been denuded of rocks over years of harvesting. Good. Finally some smooth sailing. The cleared area was roughly a circle. I spotted three other harvesters at the clearing’s edge, scooping rocks into their basins. My harvester rumbled to the edge and dropped its scoop.
I tossed my gear out of the basin and hopped after it. At this point there was no way to avoid nav cameras. I just had to hope some Sanchez employee hadn’t randomly decided to bring up the feeds to impress his girlfriend.
I collected the gear and dragged it under the harvester with me.
The first step was to attach myself and my gear to the undercarriage. Harvesters don’t stay still for long and I didn’t want to scurry after it. I upended the duffel to prep my equipment.
First was the tarp. It was heavy, fiber-reinforced plastic with grommets in the corners so you could tie it down. I laced nylon rope through the grommets and affixed it to some jack-points on the hull. Now I had a hammock. I crawled into my new secret lair and pulled my welding equipment up with me.
The harvester lurched forward. I guess it had loaded some rocks into its basin and decided to move forward for another bite. I had no warning because, hey, no sound. A minor inconvenience—I hadn’t loaded the spare oxygen tanks into my hammock yet.
I looked over to the spare tanks. Okay. Not the end of the world. I could come back later to—
A huge boulder, destabilized by the fresh hole at its base, tipped forward onto the tanks. A pathetic fart of air escaped from underneath, briefly kicking up dust. Then there was nothing. And that was the end of my reserve air tanks.
“Oh, come on!” I yelled.
I took a moment to calculate how fucked I was.
I checked my arm readout. Six hours of oxygen left in the main supply. Two more hours in the emergency reserve. I had another tank for welding. I could attach it to my suit’s universal valve, but that would defeat the purpose of the whole trip. I needed that oxygen for my nefarious plans.
So, eight hours of breathable air. Was this still doable?
Artemis was three kilometers away. The trip had a lot of rough terrain but it was also downhill. Call it two hours.
My original plan had been to wait until night (clock-night I mean, not actual lunar night) and then sneak in when everyone was asleep. But I didn’t have enough air to wait that long. I’d have to enter in the middle of the day.
New plan: the ISRO airlock. It led into Space Agency Row in Armstrong Bubble. There’d be a few confused nerds and someone might say “um…” but I’d just keep walking. With the sun visor down, no one would see my face. And, unlike the Conrad airlock, it wouldn’t be littered with EVA masters.
Okay, problem sorta solved. That meant I had six hours before I had to leave the collection area. Ninety minutes per harvester. Time to hustle.
I got as comfortable as I could in my hammock and assembled the welding gear. I laid the acetylene and oxygen tanks between my legs to keep them stable. On the harvester’s undercarriage, I eyeballed ten centimeters from the coolant valve and scratched a three-centimeter circle there with a screwdriver. That’s where I had to cut.
I flipped down my helmet’s sun visor. I’d duct taped a welding lens shade to the middle. I cranked the acetylene valve, set the torch mixture to ignition mode, sparked it, and—
…it didn’t start.
Um.
I tried again. Nothing. Not even sparks.
I checked the acetylene tank. No flow problems. What the hell?
I flipped up the visor and inspected the sparker. Dad taught me to use a flint sparker because an electric one is “another thing to break.” It was just a piece of flint and steel grooves attached to a springy handle. Nothing complicated about it. This was thousand-year-old technology we’re talking about here. Why wasn’t it working?
Oh.
Right.
When flint strikes steel, it knocks microscopic flecks of metal into the air. The metal burns because of some complicated crap related to surface area and oxidization rates. Basically, it rusts so fast that the reaction heat makes fire.
Fun fact: Oxidizing requires oxygen. Flint and steel won’t work in a vacuum. All right. No need to panic. A welding flame is just acetylene and oxygen on fire. I adjusted the valves and set the mixture to be a trickle of acetylene amongst a torrent of oxygen. Then I scraped the sparker right in front of the nozzle.
Sparks! Boy did they ever fly! That oxygen made the metal flecks go apeshit. But I’d got too far. There wasn’t enough acetylene to ignite the flame itself. I added a bit more to the mix and tried again.
This time, the shower of sparks managed to light a sputtering, inconsistent flame. I spun the valves back to a normal mix and the flame settled into a familiar, stable shape.
I breathed a sigh of relief and flipped my visor down. I held the torch steady despite the clunky EVA suit. Pain in the ass. But at least I didn’t have to deal with molten metal. This was a cut, not a join. When you cut, you aren’t melting metal. You actually turn it into an oxidized gas. Yeah, it’s that hot.
The actual cutting was a lot easier than I expected. It took less than a minute. The little three-centimeter circle of steel plopped down on my chest, followed by a blob of molten wax. The wax bubbled and re-hardened almost instantly.
My positioning was perfect. I’d cut into the wax reservoir without nicking the coolant lines nearby. I didn’t care about the health of the coolant system, but I didn’t want the harvester to call home about a coolant leak. The small daub of wax that fell on me wouldn’t be enough loss to worry the harvester. At least, I hoped not.
I pulled a pressure valve from my duffel. I’d bought six of them from Tranquility Bay Hardware the day before (one per harvester and two spares). Standard pressure connector on one side, three centimeters raw pipe on the other. I jammed the connector into the hole. I’d done well on my cut—it was a snug fit. I fired up the torch again (with the same oxygen-crazy ignition mix as last time) and grabbed a rod of stock aluminum. I needed a strong, airtight seal around the valve.
I’d done a million valve installations with Dad as a kid. But never in an EVA suit. And unlike the cut, this time I was melting stock metal to make a seal.
If I screwed up, a blob of molten metal would fall on me and bore a hole straight through my suit. Holes in EVA suits are bad.
I got as far to the side as I could—if I screwed up, maybe the Aluminum Droplet of Doom would miss me. I got to work and watched the aluminum puddle grow. The droplet trembled along th
I was careful, and took my time. I worked around the valve slowly, trying to keep my body from being directly underneath. Finally, I finished the deed.
I’d installed a pressure valve into the wax reservoir. Now it was time for the dastardly part of my plan.
I attached the line from my welding oxygen tank to the valve and cranked the flow to full.
Sure, the reservoir was full of wax, but there were gaps. And believe me, when you blow fifty atmospheres of air into a pressure vessel, it finds the gaps. Once the tank equalized with the compartment, I very carefully closed the valve and disconnected the tank line.
I slid out from under the harvester. I watched it for a second to make sure the damn thing wasn’t about to move. I don’t like making the same mistake twice.
The scoop crunched forward, grabbed a few hundred rocks, and dropped them in the basin. It reached down for another bite. Okay, I had time to climb aboard.
I hopped on the nearby wheel and hoisted myself onto the frame. I reached the breaker box and opened the little door. Inside, it was just like Trond’s harvester’s breaker box, with the same four lines connecting to it. Not a surprise—they were the same model. Still, I unclenched a little upon seeing it.
Harvesters have breakers all over to stave off electrical problems, but the last line of defense is the main breaker. All power runs through it. It’s the “fuse” that protects the battery.
I pulled a homemade contraption from my duffel. It consisted of two jumper-cable clamps on thick-gauge wire, which led to a high-voltage relay switch. The relay was wired into the buzzer on a battery-powered alarm clock. Simple as that. The relay would trip when the clock’s alarm went off. Not exactly rocket science, and it sure as hell wasn’t pretty, but it would work.
I connected the positive and negative poles of the main power line with my contraption. Nothing happened, of course. The relay was open. But once the alarm went off (set for midnight that evening), the relay would close and the battery would short out. And the short would bypass the breaker box entirely, so the normal fail-safes wouldn’t work.