5. Breakdown

The vodka, if it could be called that, burned from top to bottom. The Mizmo engineers on station were top notch, but their ingredients were not and their distillation method was not as refined as it was illegal. For lack of anything imported, though, Peter took what he was offered.

"You can't let her bully you like that," Sam said.

"Thanks. You and all three of your friends are a great comfort to me." Peter rubbed his temples as Sam refilled the glass.

"There's more than three of us. Counting me, Sue, and half the engineers we've got at least seven," Sam laughed and leaned back in his chair. They were sitting in his office, which was much more in keeping with station style than the Captain's suite. Mostly beige and white, it looked battered and bulky with industrial stuffing leaking out of the chair seats and large bolts holding the file cabinets in place. The desk developed a structural crack a generation ago, but Sam literally grew up finding ways to hold the pieces together. His latest innovation involved high-tensile plastic wrap and some kind of orange glue.

"Everyone knows I called it wrong on the filter exchange. I got three people hurt, one killed. Even Angie blames me, and I guess she should. She's right, Sam, I held them in the lock too long trying to hedge my bets." He emptied the tumbler.

"Easy, there, champ. That's strong stuff." Sam kicked his legs as they dangled over the edge of his chair. At 5'2", he never in his life sat in a chair where his feet reached the floor, and he developed the habit of kicking them back and forth whenever he wanted to stress his point, as if he were playing soccer with the idea.

"Look, Peter: everyone went over that a thousand times. You played it safe, your own father agreed with your decision, and it was pure dumb luck that the new filter box imploded. No one knew the problem existed, no one could have. Your father died a hero, but that's not your fault. Can you please accept that?" Sam, obviously weary of having the same discussion every day, finally drew his legs up so he curled into the chair like a cat.

Peter reached over and refilled his own glass. "If we go to the Wadi, we'll all die. I know it, Sam. France can not get a rescue here in time. Angie thinks we've got two months there but we won't. France will land a cargo to cart our dehydrated dust back. I'm the one who says we should launch the rotted hulk of the LQ and risk re-entry, and everyone thinks I'm playing it safe? What the hell?"

Sam chewed his bottom lip, and spoke without looking at Peter. "I've spec'd her numbers, Peter. They look good."

"Damn!" Peter slammed his drink down on the desk, which rattled nervously. "Not you too!"

"Peter, the filter disaster was not your fault. Okay? And look at this with fresh eyes. The LQ is about as stable as my desk. One wrong move, one loose tile, and we're eating plasma. Remember the Columbia shuttle? The Vancouver shipment? That could be us. And we really don't have professional pilots here. You trust the automatics that much?"

Peter actually did agree with Sam, but it was the small nagging dark suspicion that held him back from saying so. Sam gargled vodka and gave another exasperated sigh, directed specifically at Peter. It was obvious that not friendship, his winning personality or even his direct authority was going to win anyone to his side, and Peter was tired of fighting it. There was more than one reason he was at fault when his father died.

"You're right, Sam. On every point. So is Angie. I've spec'd her numbers a hundred times and I can't find a hole."

Sam leaned forward, serious and worried. "180. Confused. Explain." He held his hand out the way they did as kids, when making a bet: palm open, facing up.

"Have you talked to the Ranchers lately?"

"Sure. 'Course. They need my radiation numbers." Sam leaned back with an 'it's clearly obvious' shrug. The relationship between their station and the Wadi was always cordial, because at least on paper they were both Mizmo operations. The stationers called the Wadi scientists "ranchers" and in turn the Ranchers called them "miners" and everyone made jokes about owing the company store. The Ranchers, though, were a small, select lot of scientists who were exempt from the "no babies" law, meaning some of them were third generation on the Moon and very territorial. Peter knew there were precisely twenty-three ranchers in residence, and half of them he knew from childhood. Such a small group could not do everything, though, and nor were they interested, so they let the station crunch the boring numbers and measure the mundane dangers and that was why Sam got a chance to talk to them at all. Peter, on the other hand, talked to them from a purely social standpoint, not a luxury many other stationers enjoyed.

"Right. But I mean, talk to them. As in, 'hi, how you doin'?"

Sam shook a finger at him. "You're going somewhere with this, I can tell."

"Enough sarcasm. What I'm trying to tell you is that the talks we've had with them lately have been strained. It bothers me."

"Sure, what you think, they're thrilled with the idea of 114 'miners' tramping all over the lawn? I don't blame them that, because from a scientific standpoint it's a tragedy. Using the Wadi as a life raft will save our lives but kill the project. The environmentals won't survive us and all the plants will die. I'd be mad if I were them. But what can you do? Sometimes altruism has to take a hit for survival's sake."

Peter nodded. "Okay, but what I'm really talking about is over the last five years. Before this."

"Things were strained before this? No they weren't. I talk to them every week. Same tired jokes from that guy Hartsford Jr. over there. Real nut, but thinks he's funny."

"Look, what I'm trying to say is the numbers run but the psyche doesn't. The Wadi has been incredibly successful; they've got nearly 100 acres growing under seven domes, that's a quite an accomplishment in less than 100 years for a non-commercial operation. They're all family over there, cousins and aunts and uncles and kids. They've got their own world. My father was picking up on it too, we talked a bit about it when the filtration system here started to fail. For no reason. They've got the exact same system in their own office pod, but the Ranchers are drinking clean water and breathing fresh air." Peter tapped the armrest and gazed up at the ceiling, hoping both that Sam would figure it out and that Sam wouldn't. There were problems with either outcome.

Sam was apparently too incredulous to argue with a madman. He sat staring at Peter with his mouth open, so Peter kept going.

"Even Dad felt something was up. That's why we agreed before he went into the lock to replace the filters that he would stay out there until things were up and running."

Sam stopped kicking. His feet hung still and the office went quiet enough that Peter could hear the hum of the vent he had been trying not to think about all morning.

"Good grief, Pete." Sam set the tumbler down on the cracked desk with more care than he usually gave anything. "Captain made that call? Why the hell didn't you say something?"

"Because I made the call. Dad just made the suggestion." Peter watched the surface of the vodka instead of Sam's face. "He thought his ideas were crazy. Hoped he was wrong. By the time we knew he was right it was too late."

"Pete---"

"What could I do? Accuse the Ranchers of murder? If there was tampering, proof was destroyed along with everything else. Along with Dad."

Sam pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. He had known Big Jim almost as long as Peter had, had been at the dinner table for half his childhood, had been the one Big Jim sent home with leftovers when his own father was working a double.

"I had the lock open," Peter said. His voice had gone quieter without his choosing it. "I had my hand on the override. He told me to button it up. He said wait until we know. And I waited."

"Pete, that's the right call."

"I know it's the right call. That's not what I'm trying to tell you." Peter set the glass down. "Sam. Nobody dies up here. They get injured, they get sick, but we send 'em home. We lose people to Earth-side accidents on leave, we lose people to medical they should have caught dirtside, we lost Dr. Heffernan to that idiotic rover thing, but actually dying? On station? In all my life it's three people. Three."

Sam nodded slowly.

"They had been training me for Captain since I was thirteen. Thirteen, Sam. I sat in on briefings, I shadowed Father, I learned every system on this rock backwards. I thought I knew what the job was. And then Father is on the other side of that door asking me to make the call and I make it and the call is correct and he dies anyway." Peter rubbed at his face. "I don't know what I am after that. I don't know what the job is. I sit in his office and I spin his globe and I cannot find the part of me that was supposed to grow up to do this."

Sam was quiet for a long time. Then he said, "Your dad told me once you had a better head for it than he ever did."

"Don't."

"He did. Sitting right here. Couple years ago. I'm not making it up to make you feel better, I'm telling you because you should know."

Peter said nothing. The vent hummed. Sam left him to it for a minute, then quietly refilled both glasses.

"If you at least told Angie---"

"She's not fond of theories without evidence. And she blames me for everything, for the filter failures, for Dad, for everything. She would just accuse me of trying to evade responsibility. I guess she's not far off on that; but still, it would only be ammunition for her."

Sam shook his head. "Pete, you've carried the blame for the captain's death like a boulder on your shoulders for six months. No one can accuse you of evading responsibility there. Quite the reverse, honestly."

"You're not arguing my hypothesis."

"Because you can't be serious. The Ranchers sabotaging our station? What the hell for? To get us over there en mass and kill all their precious plants and bugs?"

"No, no, of course not. Say they didn't bet any of us would stay. Say that once the filtration system looked bust they thought we would all be smart and go home. Just leave. Be smart. But we're not high minded, smart scientists; we're miners, really. At heart we're all miners and we don't leave just because the air gets dirty. So some stayed...we stayed, and now we have to put our lives in their hands? It's not a good idea, Sam. I'm telling you, it's not."

"Sure, okay, sure. One tinsy tiny problem here, Pete: why? What do they care that the Station kept going? You've got a great conspiracy, I'll give you that. But no motive. Man, you got no motive!"