Space Force: Building The Legacy Read online

  ​Once Rooney and his squad reported for duty at Armstrong Base, after they finished cleaning up after being space-sick, he asked the lieutenant if private experiments were permitted. Upon learning such were in fact encouraged, he set up a container, grape juice, and yeast, all covered by a balloon.

  ​Six weeks later, the balloon had inflated from the gases in the container and deflated again. Rooney and his spacers had learned to handle low gravity, monitor the screens, and don and remove pressure suits quickly in the dark.

  ​"Boys," Rooney announced, "we are days away from the six-week mark. Don't you think we deserve to commemorate the occasion?"

  ​"After a year, sure. But a month and a half?" DeMarcus Washington asked.

  ​"Hey, Wash, didn't your mama tell you that any excuse is a good one for a party?" PFC Alasdair Bell asked.

  ​"Well, it's July 25," Rooney pointed out. "That means we're less than a week from J.K. Rowling's birthday."

  ​"J. K. Rowling? Isn't she the one who wrote all the banned books?" Noe Sandoval asked. "If they burn her books, what do you think they'll do to us?"

  ​"No one is going to court-martial us for celebrating a white-haired old lady's birthday. Heck, at her age, it might be her last one," Rooney pointed out.

  ​"How do you even know Rowling's birthday?" Bell asked.

  ​"She gave her own birthday to Harry Potter," Sean Fitzgerald Rooney explained. "I about memorized those books when I was a kid. Didn't you read them, or at least see the movies?"

  ​"My parents would've made sure I didn't sit down for a week if I tried to read banned books." Sandoval said. "My pastor would've made sure I didn't sit down for two weeks."

  ​"You never read Little Red Riding Hood or the Bible? Or Darwin's Origins of the Species?" Rooney asked. "Wizard of Oz?"

  ​"Of course I've never read Darwin," Bell replied. "You even touch the cover of that with a finger and you go straight to Hell."

  ​"What if the bookshelf collapses and you're helping the librarian clean the mess up?"

  ​"Darwin is more of a Satanist than J. K. Rowling," Bell insisted.

  ​"Little Red Riding Hood? Who'd ban that? It's a baby book," Sandoval protested.

  ​"Yeah, but Red carried wine and cake to her Grandmother. Some people don't approve of wine … especially in children's stories," Rooney explained.

  ​His squadmates shook their heads at Little Red Riding Hood being objectionable. "Hope you don't object to wine. That's one of the refreshments at, um, Dick Dibble's Birthday.'

  ​"Um, who's Dick Dibble?"

  ​"Is anyone offended by him?" Rooney asked.

  ​"Never even heard of him."

  ​"Then you can't possibly be offended by him."

  ​"How'd you sneak wine up without it breaking or getting caught?"

  ​"I didn't sneak it up. I bottled it myself, here on the moon. It will be ready on Dick Dibble's birthday. Should we bake him a cake or make cookies instead?"

  ​"I ain't baking nothin'. Bakin' is for girls," Bell pronounced the last word as if females were still the yuckiest, ickiest thing in creation, rather than the Creator's grandest creation.

  ​"Baking is just applied chemistry. My Mom was a great baker and I used to be her sous-chef."

  ​"Sue what?"

  ​"Her kitchen helper," Rooney explained.

  ​"One thing I need to know before the party - can everybody handle their liquor?" Rooney asked. "It's only wine, not hard liquor, but we don't need anyone getting so sloshed they go outside the dome without a pressure suit."

  ​They all shook their heads and assured him they would not pull any such fool stunt.

  ​"And if anyone has any questions about the propriety of celebrating Dick Dibble's birthday, check St. Paul's First Letter to St. Timothy: 1 Timothy 5:23," Rooney advised.

  ​Sandoval and Bell went to the computer after the party planning meeting ended and looked up a verse none of their pastors nor Sunday school teachers had ever taught them.

  ​"And no longer drink only water but take a little wine for their stomach's sake."

  ​Rooney commandeered two young privates and taught them his mother's chocolate cookie recipe. They baked enough for the whole base, even the officers.

  ​July 31, Sean Fitzgerald Rooney gathered his men, and with the first wine bottled on the moon and some chocolate cookies, wished the late Dick Dibble a very happy birthday. They played music but did not dance.

  ​August 1, PFC Philip Nguyen reported to the Chief Medical Officer, suffering from what he thought was spacesickness: nausea, a migraine-level headache, photosensitivity, dry mouth, loss of balance.

  ​Dr. Zimmerman called General Davis, the CO of Armstrong Base. "Sir, we have a problem."

  ​"Anything contagious?"

  ​"I certainly hope not. I have a young man with all the symptoms of a hangover. The problem is, no one offered me any booze."

  ​"Well, that's definitely a problem. No one's offered me any booze, either," the general commiserated with the doctor.

  ​Armstrong Base was small, but not so small that the CO knew every man under his command. Davis, however, knew Nguyen by sight. Private First Class Philip Nguyen was the smallest man on the moon; 5'2", and 118 pounds soaking wet.

  ​After General Davis and Dr. Zimmerman terrified Nguyen by interrogating him together. Davis had Rooney, the second smallest man on the base called to his office. Sean Fitzgerald Rooney was 5'3" in his boots, but short and stocky, not petite like Nguyen.

  ​"I understand there was a party the other day. Good thing it wasn't Dick Dibble's birthday."

  "What did you say, sir?" Sean Fitzgerald Rooney was shocked.

  ​"When I was in the Navy, we used to celebrate Dick Dibble's Birthday. Odd man, Dick Dibble, had a birthday every 6-12 weeks." Unlike most of his crew, Davis had not come to USSF through the USAF. A former astronaut, he'd started out as a Navy pilot.

  ​"We were celebrating Dick Dibble's Birthday, sir, and his next one is in six weeks," Rooney confessed.

  ​"As a young ensign, I always wondered who he was and why he had so many birthdays. I'm as curious about that as I am how Nguyen got a hangover when I know he didn't raid the officers club because we don't have an officers' club. But I may put you in charge of developing one instead of court-martialing you if you can answer some questions.

  ​Sean Fitzgerald Rooney took a deep breath. "Dick Dibble was my," he stopped to calculate the relationship, counting generations on his fingers, "my first cousin, twice removed.

  ​“When my grandfather was in the navy, he and his men decided they deserved a party. They couldn't just get beer and a pizza, his mates decided they needed an occasion to celebrate, so Gramps told them it was Dick Dibble's birthday. A month or two later, they had another party, so Gramps said it was Dick Dibble's birthday again. He celebrated his cousin's birthday a dozen or more times while he was in the Navy. Once his cousin came to visit, and his mates didn't believe him. They thought he'd found somebody to pretend to be Dick Dibble and went to the expense of getting fake ID made. You must have either served with my grandfather when you were young or served somewhere where he served, and the custom survived him."

  ​Davis nodded. "How did you get alcohol on the moon, Corporal?"

  ​"I made it. The officers' club can't open for six weeks. That's when the next batch will be ready."

  ​"You made it? I think I would have noticed giant oak vats and bunches of grapes in the inventory of supplies coming up from Earth."

  ​"I brought up the yeast and balloons. I got the fruit juice up here from the commissary."

  ​"Fruit juice and balloons?" Davis repeated.

  ​"When Lt. LeCroix saw it, I told him it was a carbon dioxide experiment," Rooney said with complete honesty.

  ​With the general's tacit blessing, Rooney started a second carbon dioxide experiment, this one fermenting apple juice with raisins instead of grape juice.

  ​"Hey, Phil, can I talk to
you a minute?" Rooney asked.

  ​"What's up?" Nguyen asked.

  ​"The general offered me the chance to open and be in charge of the new officer's club. I'll need someone to help me set it up," Rooney told him.

  ​"Why me? I know nothing about the care and feeding of officers," Nguyen confessed.

  ​"Keep 'em fed, let 'em think they're superior beings, and protect them from finding out the truth. That's all you need to do," Rooney explained. "As for why, if you got smashed from homemade wine, you're not likely to steal from the liquor cabinet."

  ​"I've never reacted to booze like that before," Nguyen said. "Maybe it was your recipe.

  ​"Not to be rude, but you don't have much meat on your bones. Maybe there just wasn't enough you to resist the effects of the wine."

  ​"I probably shouldn't have drunk on an empty stomach," Nguyen conceded.

  ​"No, I could get away with that," Rooney patted his stomach, "but you can't. Why didn't you eat anything?"

  ​"Chocolate cookies. I'm allergic to chocolate. Next party, have a wider menu."

  ​"Next party, I'll be able to borrow from the officer's club kitchen. We were on a limited budget this time. No Walmart's up here, no PX either."

  ​"So, officer's club, what do we need?"

  ​"A bar, a restaurant, a rec room, and a banquet hall,"

  ​"All in one, or separate facilities?" Nguyen asked.

  ​"Best if we had four separate rooms, but adjoining. Let's figure out what we need, then I can start requisitioning supplies from the general and setting up a budget."

  ​Nguyen nodded. "Does it rate a name or is it just Armstrong Base Officer's Club?"

  ​"We use ABOC for requisitioning supplies, but the restaurant and banquet hall usually rate a name." Sean Fitzgerald Rooney smiled, remembering a tale his grandfather had once told him of the time he'd accidentally created a government agency. He'd used different initials than expected when sending a file out. When his office needed the file back, no one could figure out to whom he'd sent the darned thing.

  ​"Armstrong Base. Neil Armstrong," Rooney thought aloud. "The Eagle has landed. How about the Eagle's Eyrie?"

  ​"That should work."

  ​"And if we requisition some supplies for ABOC and some for USSFEE, we might Bilko a profit out of this."

  ​Nguyen nodded. "Is that legal?"

  ​"It is if we don't get caught."

  ​"So what do we need for the overpaid and overdecorated?"

  ​"Either a kitchen of our own or access to the messhall kitchen. Food. Art for the walls. Maybe some potted plants from the hydroponics lab to make the place look nice. Books and games for the rec room. Booze and snacks - more than just chocolate cookies - for the bar section. A competent, trustworthy NCO as bartender. Waiters eventually. Furniture. Music."

  ​Nguyen jotted down notes.

  ​"For the artwork, print out pictures from the 'Net? Cheaper and quicker than requesting paintings to be shipped up from Earth."

  ​"Cheaper and quicker are both good," Rooney agreed. "I don't mind posters over paintings. Unless anyone here is talented enough to paint and wants to show off their work."

  ​"Pictures of the fairer sex?" Nguyen suggested.

  ​"Plenty of those on the 'Net," Rooney agreed.

  ​"Did you know there are pictures of the president's mother without any clothes on available on the 'Net?" Nguyen asked.

  ​"I don't think General Davis would consider that particularly patriotic. Besides, it would freak out Sandoval and Bell. They think storks deliver babies fully clothed."

  ​Corporal Rooney considered a moment. "I think it was one of the president's stepmothers who posed for dirty pictures, not her mother. After all, her father was married five times."

  ​They printed out posters of Katherine Johnson, Mary Jackson, Shannon Lucid, Judith Resnick, Sally Ride, and Ellen Ochoa to put on the walls of the restaurant. For the rec room, instead of historical figures, they put up posters of fictional space heroines: Nichelle Nichols as Uhura, Taraji Henson as Katherine Johnson, Carrie Fisher as Leia Organa, Cherrelle Skeeter as Captain T'Lissa, and assorted alien princesses and pilots from various movies, streaming shows, and webcasts. There was one framed portrait of the president in a French designer outfit, but no pictures of her stepmother, clothed or unclothed. There were four computer consoles for gaming in the rec room. The low gravity made actual cards and board games impractical.

  ​Fitzgerald made another gallon of balloon wine and requisitioned beer, single-blend malt whiskey, MREs, and steaks - actual cow-steaks from a dead steer rather than tofu mock-beef - from Earth.

  ​Six weeks later, Admiral Jacob Cooper, a former astronaut and the current administrator of NASA, arrived at Armstrong Base along with about half of Fitzgerald's requested supplies.

  ​"Jake, great to see you again." General Davis shook hands enthusiastically with his former colleague. "You're just in time for the opening of our new officers'club"

  ​"I always did have a knack for lucky timing, or did you delay it just for me?"

  ​"No, we delayed it for Dick Dibble's Birthday," Davis told him.

  ​"Dick Dibble's Birthday? I haven't been to a Dick Dibble birthday party in decades," Cooper said.

  ​"Well, Dick Dibble's Birthday is an official lunar holiday," General Davis announced. "And once we've had some apple wine, I'll explain to you the secret of how he had so many birthdays."

  ​"About time. I've been curious for years," Cooper admitted.

  Chocolate Cookies

  1/4 tsp salt

  1 cup butter (softened)

  1 1/2 cups sugar

  2 eggs

  2 tsp vanilla extract

  2 cups flour

  2/3 cup cocoa powder

  3/4 tsp baking soda

  2 cups chocolate chips, M&Ms, etc.

  Preheat oven to 350.

  Beat butter, sugar, eggs, & vanilla.

  Combine flour, cocoa powder, baking soda, & salt in another bowl.

  Slowly stir dry ingredients into butter mixture until well blended.

  Mix in chocolate chips, M&Ms, chopped nuts, white chocolate chips, or whatever add-in you prefer.

  Drop by rounded teaspoons on ungreased cookie sheets.

  Bake 8-10 minutes.

  Cool slightly on cookie sheets before transferring to cooling racks.

  Hey, you expected the wine recipe? It was in the text; if you can’t figure it out, you don’t need any.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Susan Murrie Macdonald is a wordsmith: author of over a dozen short stories (mostly fantasy, but also westerns, science fiction, romance, and children's stories), a staff writer for Krypton Radio, freelance proofreader, ex-copy editor, blogger, and occasional poet. She also posts both fiction and non-fiction on Medium. She is a stroke survivor. Before her stroke she was a freelance copy editor and a substitute teacher. She is the author of a children's book, R is for Renaissance Faire, inspired by her time as a volunteer at the Mid-South Renaissance Faire. She was an extra in the time travel movie Time Boys. She is, of course, writing a novel; isn't everyone?

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  ​Every service man or woman knows, when a decision has to be made, they may be the one making it. You can’t wait for higher ups to tell you what to do, and you don’t have time for an either-or analysis. Only your training will pull you through. There’s a reason the military trains hard, and trains often. Live or die, the decision must be made. Or others may die, too.

  THE DECISION

  Brena Bock

  Marina sat in her chair as cheering erupted through the intercom. They’d done it, the ship was down, the country was safe. Her crew didn’t yet know the cost. Their relieved laughter faded as they left their stations. She’d laughed once. She tried now and only a dry cawing sound came out, inhuman.

  ​She’d been young once too, less than an hour ago. Before she’d been called on to make the fateful decision, the only possible choi
ce. The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few.

  ​There had been one chance, one brief moment when the wildly oscillating ship could be brought down safely and Marina had been the one at the controls, the one who had to make the call. There was no time for discussion, no time to confer, no time for someone else to take over, no time. It was her call, or destruction on a scale humanity had never truly contemplated would happen.

  ****

  ​The young woman stood outside the recruiting office on her college campus. “Join the Space Force. Serve your country. Serve your world,” the poster read. The retro image of people her age looking off into the distance while stylized rocket ships launched behind them, while somewhat kitsch, was also inspiring.

  ​Marina was nervous about her chances. She did have a 4.0 average on her math major. The accounting minor degree, and her extracurricular activities, should help, but she didn’t know if it would be enough.

  ​Marina took a deep breath to calm the butterfly rave going on in her stomach and opened the door.

  ​The man sitting at the desk looked up with a professional smile.

  ​“Hi,” Marina said, “I’d like to sign up for Space Force.”

  ​His smile broadened into something more genuine as he pulled a packet of papers out of a desk drawer.

  ****

  What seemed simultaneously like hours and seconds later, Marina left the recruiting office with a thumb drive. It was full of information, including instructions on where to report for placement testing.

  ​That was one hurdle down, now she had to tell her mom. Marina swallowed with some trepidation. While they had discussed this possibility several times since she started college, Marina hadn’t told her mother her decision to go through with enlisting.

  ​Over dinner, Marina decided to get it out in the open.

  ​“Mom,” she started, “I need to talk to you about something.”

  ​With a smile, her mother replied, “I know you do, I’ve been waiting for you to tell me.”