Moonwar

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The chief communications technician looked up sharply from her keyboard. “Try the backup.”

“Already did,” said the man at the console beside her. “No joy. Every frequency’s dead.”

The third comm tech, seated at the console on the chief’s other side, tapped one keypad after another. His display screen showed nothing but streaks of meaningless hash.

“They did it,” he confirmed. “They pulled the plug.”

The other controllers and technicians left their own stations and drifted tensely, expectantly toward the communications consoles. Their consoles flickered and glowed, untended. The big electronic wall screen that displayed all of Moonbase’s systems hung above them as if nothing unusual was happening.

The chief pushed back her little wheeled chair slightly. “They did it right when they said they would, didn’t they?”

“That’s it, then,” said the male comm tech. “We’re at war.”

No one replied. No one knew what to say. The knot of men and women stood there in uneasy silence. The only sounds were the low humming of the electronics consoles and the soft whisper of the air-circulation fans.

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