The sound was hypnotic.
Ping...
Silence.
Ping...
Jake stared at the oscilloscope screen in the Kremlin's deep bunker. The green line spiked rhythmically.
"It takes 2.5 seconds," the radio operator explained, sweating under Jake's gaze. "Speed of light delay. Earth to Moon. Moon to Earth."
"They are mapping it," Jake whispered.
Menzhinsky lit a cigarette. The smoke curled around the ventilation fans.
"Why?" Menzhinsky asked. "Germany is losing on the ground. Why look at the sky?"
"Because Hitler knows he can't win the land war," Jake said. "He wants the ultimate high ground."
Jake traced the jagged green line with his finger.
"If you put a base on the Moon," Jake said, "you can drop a rock on any city on Earth. No warning. No radar until it burns up in the atmosphere. Kinetic bombardment."
"Gravity bombs?"
"Cheap meteors," Jake corrected. "Infinite ammunition."
He stood up. The chair scraped loudly on the concrete floor.
"He wants to turn the Moon into a sniper's nest."
"We can't stop him," Menzhinsky said. "We don't have a navy to reach Antarctica. The Americans control the oceans."
"We don't need a navy," Jake said. "We have the Machine."
The Secret City. Sub-Level 4.
The air here was freezing. It smelled of ozone and formaldehyde.
Dr. Lysenko stood by the blast door. He wiped his hands on a bloody rag.
"He is calibrated, Comrade Stalin," Lysenko said. "But he is... different."
"Open it," Jake ordered.
The heavy steel door groaned open.
The room inside was filled with servers. Banks of vacuum tubes hummed, generating a massive amount of heat.
In the center of the room was a glass tank.
Inside, suspended in a clear, viscous fluid, was Alan Turing.
Or what was left of him.
His limbs were gone. Amputated to save blood flow. His torso was wired with hundreds of electrodes. His eyes were wide open, staring at nothing, covered by a transparent digital visor.
Tubes ran into his throat and stomach, feeding him nutrient paste.
He wasn't a man. He was a biological CPU.
Jake suppressed the urge to vomit. He had done this. He had authorized this.
"Alan?" Jake whispered.
The head inside the tank twitched.
A speaker on the wall crackled. The voice was synthesized, flat, and devoid of soul.
"IDENTITY CONFIRMED. JAKE VANCE."
Jake flinched. The machine knew his real name. The name he hadn't heard in five years.
"Turing," Jake said. "Status?"
"PROCESSING," the voice droned. "OPTIMIZATION AT 94%. EMOTIONAL SUBROUTINES: DELETED. ETHICAL INHIBITORS: REMOVED."
"Good," Jake lied. "I have a problem."
"INPUT DATA."
Jake handed the radar logs to Lysenko, who fed them into a punch-card reader connected to the tank.
The fluid in the tank bubbled. Turing's eyes darted rapidly behind the visor.
"ANALYSIS COMPLETE," the voice said instantly. "SOURCE: NEUSCHWABENLAND, ANTARCTICA. TARGET: LUNAR CRATER TYCHO. OBJECTIVE: TELEMETRY FOR HEAVY LIFT VEHICLE."
"They are building a rocket?"
"AFFIRMATIVE. GERMAN TRAJECTORY CALCULATIONS INDICATE A V-4 CLASS VEHICLE. NUCLEAR PROPULSION."
Jake froze.
Nuclear propulsion. Project Orion. Using atomic bombs to push a spaceship. It was dirty, dangerous, and incredibly fast.
"If they launch," Jake asked, "how long until they establish a foothold?"
"ESTIMATED WINDOW: SIX MONTHS."
"Solution?"
"INTERCEPT," the machine said. "DESTROY THE LAUNCH SITE."
"We can't reach Antarctica," Jake said. "The US Navy blocks the Atlantic."
"CALCULATING ALTERNATIVE..."
The tank bubbled furiously. Turing's body convulsed, a puppet dancing on electric strings.
"SOLUTION FOUND," the voice boomed. "PROJECT RED MOON."
"Explain."
"IF YOU CANNOT STOP THE LAUNCH, YOU MUST ARRIVE FIRST," the machine stated. "ESTABLISH SOVIET PRESENCE. DENY LANDING ZONES. SHOOT THEM DOWN ON APPROACH."
"You want us to go to the Moon?" Jake asked. "Now? We barely have food."
"RESOURCES IRRELEVANT," the machine said cold-heartedly. "SURVIVAL IS MANDATORY. CONSTRUCT THE N-1 ROCKET. USE THE COBALT BOMB CORE FOR PROPULSION."
"That's suicide," Lysenko gasped. "Radiation would kill the crew."
"CREW SAFETY IS NOT A VARIABLE," the machine replied. "ONLY MISSION SUCCESS."
Jake looked at the floating man.
This was the monster he had created. Pure logic. No mercy.
"Do it," Jake said.
"Sir?" Lysenko looked pale.
"Design the rocket," Jake ordered. "Nuclear pulse drive. One way trip. We put a garrison on the Moon before Hitler does."
He walked to the door.
"Thank you, Alan."
"GRATITUDE IS INEFFICIENT," the speaker clicked off.
Jake walked out. He felt like he had just made a deal with a demon in a fish tank.
Washington D.C. The White House.
President Hoover sat in the Oval Office. His arm was in a sling, his face grey with pain and painkillers.
"Japan surrendered," Hoover said, reading the telegram. "To Stalin."
"They were scared, Mr. President," General Groves said. "The V-2 strike on the Indianapolis broke their spirit."
Hoover slammed his good hand on the desk.
"We spent two billion dollars on the Bomb! We built the greatest navy in history! And the Russians win with a magic trick?"
"It wasn't magic, sir. It was technology. They are ahead."
"They are starving!" Hoover shouted. "Their country is a graveyard! How are they ahead?"
"Willpower," Groves said quietly. "Stalin has turned his entire population into a war machine. No consumer goods. No rights. Just output."
Hoover stood up. He walked to the window.
"We look weak," Hoover said. "If Japan falls to the Reds, China is next. Then India."
He turned.
"We need a victory, General. A big one."
"We have the Bomb stockpiles in England. We can strike Moscow."
"No," Hoover said. "If we nuke Moscow, the cloud drifts over Europe. Our allies won't stand for it."
He pointed to the report on his desk. The same radar data Jake had seen.
"The Germans are pinging the Moon," Hoover said.
"Yes, sir. We tracked it."
"If Hitler puts a swastika on the Moon," Hoover said, "democracy is a joke. It's over."
"What are you suggesting?"
"We join the race," Hoover said. "Von Braun says he can build a rocket. Give him the budget. Unlimited funding."
"Sir, the economy..."
"Print the money!" Hoover barked. "I don't care if we bankrupt the Treasury. I want an American boot on that rock before the fascists or the communists get there."
He looked at the sky.
"It's the new front, General. The final front."
The Kremlin. The Nursery.
Jake entered the room. It was quiet.
Yuri was sitting at the small table, drawing with crayons.
Jake sat down. He watched his son.
The boy was drawing a rocket. But it wasn't a sleek silver ship. It was black. And it had teeth.
"What is that?" Jake asked softly.
"The Eater," Yuri said. He didn't look up.
"The Eater?"
"The rocket that eats the bad men," Yuri said. "Uncle Turing told me about it."
Jake felt a chill.
"When did you talk to Uncle Turing?"
"In my dreams," Yuri said. "He talks through the heater vent. He tells me stories."
Jake looked at the vent. He had ordered it sealed. But sound traveled. And Turing... Turing was plugged into everything now.
"What does he tell you?"
"He says the world is broken," Yuri said. He picked up a red crayon. He drew fire around the rocket. "He says we have to leave. To go to the white stone in the sky."
Jake grabbed the boy's hand.
"Yuri, look at me."
The boy looked up. His eyes were old. Too old for a five-year-old.
"We aren't going anywhere," Jake said fiercely. "We are staying here. We are fixing this."
"Mama isn't here," Yuri whispered.
Jake flinched.
"No. Mama is gone."
"Turing says she is in the walls," Yuri said. "He says she is part of the data now."
Jake stood up. He felt like he couldn't breathe.
The machine wasn't just running the logistics. It was infecting his son. It was a digital ghost haunting the bunker.
"Taranov!" Jake shouted.
The bodyguard ran in.
"Yes, Boss?"
"Move the boy," Jake ordered. "Get him out of the Kremlin. Take him to the deepest silo in the Urals. The one with no electronics. No speakers. No vents."
"Boss, that's a dungeon."
"It's a sanctuary!" Jake yelled. "Get him away from the Voice!"
Taranov nodded. He picked up Yuri.
The boy didn't cry. He just waved at the vent.
"Bye, Uncle," Yuri whispered.
Jake watched them leave.
He was alone in the room.
He walked to the vent. He put his ear against it.
Silence.
Then, a faint, rhythmic clicking. Like a clock. Or a bomb timer.
"I hear you, Alan," Jake whispered. "You stay in your tank. You do your math. Leave my son alone."
The clicking sped up. It sounded like laughter.
The Red Square. Midnight.
The blizzard was howling.
Jake stood by the Tsar Cannon. He wore his heavy greatcoat, but the cold seeped through.
Menzhinsky joined him.
"The N-1 design is approved," Menzhinsky said. "Construction begins tomorrow. We are melting down the statues for steel."
"Which statues?"
"The Tsars. The poets. Even some of Lenin."
"Good," Jake said. "History is heavy. We need to be light."
"We found a crew," Menzhinsky said.
"Volunteers?"
"Condemned men," Menzhinsky said. "Three pilots from the Gulag. They know it's a one-way trip. We promised their families extra rations."
"Did they accept?"
"They thanked us," Menzhinsky said. "They prefer to die in space than in the mines."
Jake looked up at the Moon. It was full, hanging over the Kremlin walls like a pale eye.
It looked beautiful. And cold.
"It begins," Jake said.
"What do we call the mission?" Menzhinsky asked.
Jake thought about the dog brains. The dead wife. The living computer.
"Project Icarus," Jake said.
"Icarus fell, Comrade."
"Only because his wings melted," Jake said. "Our wings are made of nuclear fire. We won't melt. We'll burn through."
He turned back to the dark fortress.
"Launch in ninety days. We race the devil to the stars."