Roptat Lenz
10-26-2010, 09:31 PM
This is a short story I wrote about a year ago: I am unsure, being somewhat biased, as to whether or not this is a simple story, or literature. Dissect and enjoy, please.
Grand Theft Astra
Durbain was strapped to a chair. He didn't care; he was more concerned with his leg, which still pained him, and his captor, the man behind the pane of one-way glass.
<Tell me why you are here, and how you got here.>
My name is Durbain O'Reilly. You ask me to give an account of how I came to be in my present state of seeking employment under you; I shall do so with no detail excluded, as I notice I am being taped.
<Employ?>
Yes. I wish to work for the people who saved me after I crashed.
<We'll get to that later. Tell me how you got here.>
*I guess I should start with my flaw; the one that eventually brought me here.*
My intense and consuming aravice grips me like like a chokehold; once a desire enters my mind, concious or not, it posseses me like a demon until my fevered machinations prove that they endow me with little sucess of achieving my goals. This compounding addiction is what ultimately plays me into my enemies' hands in most contests of willpower. I am easily distracted by the coy and subtle manueverings of my opponents; so much so that I sometimes lose sight of the actual objective of the competition in an effort to out-play my enemies at their own game, which they slyly and deliberatly utilize in order to gain tactical advantage over me. This is not normally a problem in contests with the intellectual peasentry, but on the occasion in which I clash with another master craftsman like myself, I am often felled almost as if by divine intervention or clairivoyant foul play. Even concious of this flaw of mine, I still still fall prey to the subtle workings of my intelectual equals. How they detect this operational deficiency, I cannot say, but when they do, it is devastating. In short, I cannot give up what I wish to pursue, and my intellectual equals recognize and exploit this flaw.
Being minion, that is to say, slight of slight of physical stature, I have historically depended on my intellectual competence to overbalance the scales in favor of me in terms of unconcious social standing. Everyone alway liked the sports teams; they were good at something physical, but my ilk and I *had to rely on mental muscles as well as social graces in order to communicate our worth to adolescent society. I had no money and no status since my parents and brother died in an automobile accident 2 years ago; I was currently being bounced around in the British Social Service program for teens; I obtained lodging in a cheap government appartment, receiving money for food and little else (since the bills were paid by His Royal Majesty) as I worked myself through high school and eventually university as an apprentice to an electician.
Personally, the subtle socio-psycological manueverings required to please and fufill the ettiquettes necesary to be a high school patrician were far beyond me. If the football team, the trained brutes, could be viewed in terms of the Spartans, powerful to begin with, and even moreso when trained, then the normal brutes (crudely put, "bullies"), are the Vikings, a sheer unadulterated physical force with no outlet but terrorizing whomever happened to stand in their path. Continuing with the western world analogy, I would classify the socialites, or self-proclaimed "preppy" students as the courtiers of the various European monarchs. They leech off the monarch, whomever is in the seat of power, and act on their every whim. Similarly, the average students are the peasants; not that they are particulary economically poor, but they suffer from the condition of being born into the state of being intellectually poorly endowed.*
However it was in the year that marked the fifteenth anniversary of the invention of*practical spaceflight in which I learned that these subpopulation demographics meant nothing. Practical spaceflight really just consisted of a ship with jet nozzles for manuevering in space and electro magnets for takeoff. The takeoff device was a line of electromagnets all angled in one direction to build up massive speed for the actual launch- which was passing though a very large orb of electromagnets, which shot the ship like a bullet straight up out of the atmosphere. It was simply called the spaceport by the commoners, or the hurling pad as all the intellectuals called it; funnily enough it was an Irishman who designed and constructed the first model- so it was with accuracy and humor in mind that it was called that by its inventor, Clarence Kearny. The spaceport also works in reverse; a ship re-enters as an old ship normally would, and passes through a vertible net of electromagnets which slowed the ship to a stop some 500 feet from the ground. The way such precision is achieved is through computer analysis of mass in the ship, and the electromags are calibrated to the exact power level necesarry to slow the ship sufficiently. I must tell you, it is an extremely gentle process, to be falling at around the speed of sound, watching the ground rushing towards you at the same speed, and then to feel a small lateral G in the direction of the earth, and slow to a stop so perfectly. It is remeniscent of an old roller coaster coming slowing down when the brakes are applied.*
But I have gotten ahead of myself. The world was reeling from this most monumental invention, and corporate colonies had recently been established on Luna, so easy was it to implement this new invention. But things changed little for my immediate situation. If this was not an invention for the benefit of the common people besides one-way transport to Luna, then what was it? A few businesses, major corporations for the most part, had gone out and built their own renderings of the hurling pad, legal or pirated. Costs were low enough so as to allow for profits even if groups of 20 people were launched, each paying a sum of 20 pounds, but we never saw anything to suggest that this was a revolutionary invention. I despaired that such a wonderful invention was being being witheld from us. Such was my duress when my situation changed for the worst, quite independent of the spaceport, however much it involved it later on.*
The head of the socialites, Richard "Ricky" Calistente, a Spanish immigrant and a strong anti-Semite (resulting of my calling him Torquemada in the comany of my fellows), offered to me a propsition. The following is an account of that conversation which set me on the course to where I am now.
"So.... Durbain. I need you for something," he said.
*
"If it's about homework, or test help, kindly return to where you came from. I cannot offer you nor anyone else help beyond what they can do for themselves." (excuse my coldness, but the general population appealed to me on a regular basis for aid in academic matters. Eventually their persistence is sufficient to withhold from them any and all aid in order to make them truly appreciate the value of knowledge. My fellows also participated in this boycott. They left us alone after a week or two.)*
"No, it's nothing like that. We (an unintentional mention of the class system- a minor breach of etttiquette on his part) have noticed that you are not like the rest of the nerds (a second slip-up, this must be serious) and we want you to come to a party that we are having tonight, well, that my father is throwing. I was hoping that maybe you would like to come?"
Never mind that Torquemada had invited me to a party, but his father was the CEO of a powerful spanish corporation with bases in England (El Escorial shipping and freight), one of the few companies that had access to a spaceport. Certainly the party could get me some pull with someone high enough up on the totem pole of corporate life to get to inspect a spaceport up close. Perhaps a ride on a low orbit run! The local spaceport itself hadn't been officially revealed to the public, but the town knew well enough.
"I'll think about it," I said. Never seem too happy to do anything. With the socialites, it is necessary to supress humanity.*
"Seriously, man, we want you to come."
He sounded desperate, but not an urgent sort of desperate. That should have alerted me to the true nature of the situation then and there.
"Fine, I shall make arrangements..."
He told me the location and time of the party. It was at his father's hurling pad, the official unveiling, I could only assume. It was all I could do to not to jump up and shout in ecstacy.*He left, and the rest of my day went on as if nothing momentous had occured. I told none of my comrades, lest they feel envious.*
Torquemada went back to his new whore; this year's model was actually fairly intelligent- perhaps she had replaced us, and that is why they stopped coming to us for aid.
That night, I was boarded the bus to that part of town and walked the rest of the way to the spaceport. I approached the front gates, and proceeded into the complex. It was dark, with the only lights coming from the empty lots surrounding the complex. It was dominated by what appeared to be a long segment of railroad tracks curving up into a bulbous globule which was on steel stilts. This was the drive mechanism. I was enticed and enthralled at the sight of it (and the ship that lay on the tracks), but noone was there. Could Torquemada have given me incorrect information, or was this a cruel joke? It was the latter, but there was more.
"Oh, hey, Durbain's here!" I heard. I was comforted, thinking that perhaps the party was in full swing somewhere not immediately visible.
Rather, I was treated to a volley of eggs from none other than Satan incarnate, Socialite leader, Joshua Ericson. The rest of his entourage was present, and soon throwing other seemingly rotten food items. I had been duped. You can imagine my shame, sadness, and intense anger at those who had lied to me. Even as I was persecuted there, I resolved to never again be caught in one of their pathetic snares. I would simply never trust again. It was my flaw that led me here. It was a common school fact that I wished for nothing more than to observe or even participate in a hurling pad launch; my flaw had allowed them to hoodwink me.
I was pursued around the complex a few times, for 15 minutes, maybe. I heard a car pull into the parking lot of the complex. The courtiers abandoned their pursuit of me, called away by their king, Torquemada. I heard a far cry of,
"Look, Seti's here!" and a carbon copy of the treatment given to me.*
Poor Seti. At least he had a car to get away in. But perhaps it is fortunate that I did not, or else I would have never been a prospective employee for you. It bacame obvious that they had set up a schedule of persecutees at set intervals. It made me sick of them, but it sadenned me greatly that none of us had told any of our fellows. This was a psycological-empathetic catch 22 if ever there was one. I wished to trust my fellows more, but I was also callous from the pain inflicted by mistrusting others.*
I stole away to where the ship lay, on the end of the hurling pad. What could I do but to hide inside it until they left? So I did. The interior was Spartan, containing cushioned seats with straps, but little else. It did have viewing ports, a basic display, and a plexiglas windscreen. I waited there for some time, watching several others get persecuted. None of them noticed me; nor did any of their persecutors. It was surreal, watching scenes play out from a nuetral point of view like that. I was the saint that escaped the lions.
In the bit of Time between the spectacles, I was able to inspect the cargo of the ship. It was nothing more than metal crates full of fruit, for shipment to Luna or one of the space stations. There was no writing on them, just harnesses to hold them down during launch and flight. It was getting late, so late, in fact, that they had time for only one more ceremony of misery. The most hated amongst us, William hatch, had arrived. I was surprised that he was not suspicious of them, being told to arrive so late for a party, assuming he was given the same information that I was. Perhaps he was suspicious. We will never know. Because they killed him. When it was his turn to take the unwarrented punishment, he fought back. It was undoubtedly the biggest mistake he ever made. He rushed them, flailing blindly in rage. The "king's horses and men" held him while he was viciously beaten before my very eyes.
<And then what happened? Tell us more.>
What more detail do you want? Do you wish to know of how his bowels released and he wailed in pain as they broke his jaw? Do you desire to here of how he choked and vomited when the continued blows forced his jawbone down his throat? I didn't think you did- do not ask me to pander to those who are enticed by such details.
Two of the curs dragged the body away. I doubt they knew he was dead (in fact it was only my intimate anatomical knowledge that suggested to me that he was), but they did know that he was grievously injured; there can be no mistake about that. By the time they returned, the rest of the group was in a circle smoking marijuana (it could have been hashish or something else of that nature, I cannnot say)- a fitting end to the night of terrors; mentally debilitating drugs are one of the four pillars of hedonism, along with sex, overindulgence at the dinner table, and excessive consumption of aldehydes and ketones. They were not, however, so mentally debilitated that they would allow me to escape if I were to attempt it. So I busied myself studying the controls of the ship.*
As it turns out, the ship was able to launch with only a command from the interior controls. There was no need for anyone to operate the remote controls on the podium outside some 30 feet away. It was all very direct; a button for launch to a preset location (either another terrestrial spaceport or one of the several on Luna), and flight controls identical to those in an aeroplane for atmospheric and low orbit manuvering. The present preset location was set for Luna, the base on the south pole thereof.*
While puzzling over the controls, I heard movment and voices from outside the ship. When I rushed to the windscreen to view what was causing the noise, I was thrust into shock and terror. What was causing the disturbance were two men in pilot's gear (I.e. oxygen helmets, g-suits, the usual ensemble) and two men in corporate business suits. The pilots (of the ship I was in, I guessed, since I never did find out) were youngish, 30 tops, but the men in business attire were considerably older, 60 perhaps. The were yelling at the fleeing socialites, Torquemada looking particularly distressed, since these were probably some of his father's corporate toadies, and would report to their boss on anything they saw.
I was terrfied and shocked because I was technically trespassing on company property, and would likely receive a massive prison sentance if I was discovered, since foreign companies like El Escorial are given preferential legal treatment. So I panicked. Panic may not be the best word for what I felt at that moment. I felt a mixture of fear, depression, fury, and shame. It vaguely occured to me that my life sucked as I nihilistically slapped my hand down on the launch button.*
My life went from sucking to streaking by. It was as if I was being shot from a gun, or I was in a rocket that was accelerating continously. My rational mind knew that I was only experiencing 4 gees (laterally, mind you), but I felt as if I was somehow sitting in a compartment on the surface of a solid Jupiter-sized planet. If that was not bad enough, as I neared the end of the oversized railgun, the incline began. I felt my now-immense body weight shift from my chest and legs to my groin. Not fun.
I was lucky I had strapped myself in beforehand, otherwise I never would have survived the field jump. I was shot through a giant orb of EM power, experiencing roughly 50 gees. I cannot say that I felt the effects of that burst, since I was jolted into unconciousness immediately.
<Most people die if they are not in gee suits at take off. You are lucky you lived.>*
I'm small. Simple as that. Divine intervention, if you like, but I need no sympathy. Regardless, the next time I was fully concious, I was in space. I observed Earth as a large globe behind me, since upon exiting the mechanism, I felt no more acceleration, and could therefore move about the inside of the ship. I knew by heart the escape speed of most hurling pad ships; I was travelling at 17740 feet per second, 5407.39 meters per second, or 12096 miles*Per hour. My act had carried me out here. I was at least lucky enough that the destination was preset, and required no manuvering, or else I would be dead. Even knowing that I would arrive at my destination, I expected to die. I cannot say why, since spaceports' receiving EM nets were always functional, and since the pilots had come and were presumably going to do pre-flight checks I couldn't be that far off their schedule. But I assume that since I expected to die when I saw Willy Hatch die, expected to die when the men in suits came, when I hit the launch button, and when I was about to pass through the EM orb, I had some fatalistic resignation.
The porthole had a wonderful and beautiful view of the Earth. I was compelled to cite lyric altered for the occasion:
Sweetest love, I do not go
**For weariness of thee,
But in hope the Moon can show
**A fitter love for me.
During the time in which I was en route to Luna, the radio was riddled with signals demanding to know whether or not there was a biotic on board. I didn't dare to respond, lest they call the ship back. The whole trip lasted not over two days. It was terribly boring once one got used to the fun of null -g, and there was no food, since the crates were unopenable without some sort of airlock, but there was at least a washroom, air, and water. I obtained the water through a clever little mechanism; the machine that recycled my air also removed air from the atmosphere in which I was contained. I had enough that I was never thirsty. Unfortunately, some of the water was recycled through the lavatory, but being a man of rationality and science, I disregarded my initial reluctance; all that was taken was pure h2o, and could in no way be contaminated. *
I slept twice, and the second time I woke up, I was on the south pole colony of Luna, immediately evidenced by the gravity- lunar gravity may be week, but after 48 hours of null-g, anything feels significant. I was shook awake by a burly bruiser in the ship. The events were as as follows:
*
"Get up, kid. You're in real deep ****." he said to me.
"What for?" I asked, feigning innocence and naivity.
"Stealing a ship, dumbass. That's punishable by death; grand theft astra, I think."
"But sir, you haven't any clue as to why. I may have a very good reason, you know."
"What a crock. You have no reason for being here; I can promise you that. I'm takin' you to the Cheif."
"Cheif of what?"
"Cheif of cislunar shipping. The chief's office is here you know. Until then..." he slapped a pair of handcuffs on me, "I'm not takin' any chances with you. I bet you are a slippery character."
I detested that man; his manner, his accent, and his poor English were unbearable. He was most certainly American, like the plurality of the Lunar immigrants. He brought me out of the ship into what appeared to be a large airlock carved into the Lunar surface. Most of the lunar colonies were underground to save materials and equipment. The airlock was like any other; grey and shielded. He brought me to a ground transport vehicle, an assumedly airtight tram that operated on EM rails, like an infinately slower version of the hurling pad. Petrol was certainly on it's way out.
On the ride to the office of cislunar shipping, he was in a state of annoyed silence. I maintained my silence as well; nothing to be gained from jawing with my captor. About halfway through the journey, he threw a pair of grey coveralls at me and temporarily unlucked the cuffs.
"Put those on- you won't be seen unless you wear them."
I changed while he looked away- I didn't strip all the way anyway; the moon was cold, so I kept my undershirts and boxers on.
Upon arrival to the office, handcuffs on, I was jostled out of the ground vehicle, and was powerless to avoid the roughness, being restrained by them; I don't think I would have done any different if I wasn't, it was my belief that assuming a role of inferiority in situations such as these can play to one's advantage. The office was a large building made of plastic and metal (aluminum, most likely) built in the space between the floor and ceiling of the cavern in which we were. The end point of the building was the ceiling of the cavern; I can only guess that the ceiling of the uppermost floor in the building would have a ceiling of lunar rock.
The doors were American old west style, like those of a saloon, but hydraulically augmented so they wouldn't swing like mad in the puny lunar gravatic force. As I was brought inside, I was shocked to find an array of men and women in business suits working in cubicles of varying tidiness, answering telephones and typing at terminals. the atmosphere was not at all different from office buildings on Earth. My jailor led me forward through the labyrinth of corporate chaos and order to a staircase, which we ascended. We walked down the hall to a room with a wooden door (certainly a bigwig or else the tenant would never have been able to afford it- wood is expensive to ship from earth) and entered without knocking. My captor stood up noticeably straighter in the presence of the cheif of cislunar shipping, who was, to my surprise, a woman. I always imagined the lunar colonies as being like the American colonies- many men and few women, at least until the colonies were established for a while. I was mistaken, as all of the Lunar colonies were private business ventures, and therefore, the employees of the Corporations that established the colonies were of the same demographic percentage as on Earth. She was a stern looking woman, with grey hair that was waging a fierce battle with her original auburn hair- a battle that it was winning. She had a tight, small mouth and a tight business jacket- she exuded an aura of uptightness, as if the slightest deviation would upset her.*
It was just my luck that she was the one in charge of my fate. "Sit down, Mr. O'Reilly." she said. "What, you didn't think we were capable of knowing that the one person missing from the town in which our spaceship was hijacked could be the culprit?" she said, assumably in response to my astonished face.*
Indeed I had been surprised when she had mentioned my name, but when she explained it like that, it seemed so obvious. In my defense, when I fled earth I wasn't exactly aiming for anonomity.
"You may leave, Mr. Silver." she said curtly to the brute.
He looked aprehensive, but with a "yes ma'am," he nonetheless departed from the office, closing the door behind him.
"Sit down, Mr. O'Reilly," she said with more force this time, gesticulating accordingly, and I did indeed sit.*
"I assume that you know why you are here? Of course you do. You hijacked a company ship, serial no. 208745. This is an offense punishable by a life sentence in accordance with the International Spaceport Bill of 2017," she said.*
I knew of the Spaceport bill; I was (and am) a space enthusiast- I also knew my punishment. The bill was adopted by all the spacefaring countires of earth, and it protected the rights and liberties of all space travellers until the body on which they were (in my case Luna) had drafted their own constitution. She was being lenient by only enacting the Bill. The lunar constitution was much stricter- drafted in large part by the Chinese, who are almost tyrannical in their treatment of their enormous population.
"However, we do things differently out here," she said. Just what I had dreaded; the lunar constitutional punishment. Age meant nothing here. There were no legal spacers under the age of 25, and were thus ignored in the constitutions. I was a dead man.
*
"We do not need court jurisdiction out here, all the company requires is evidence in order to convict a suspect. We also have direct and arbitrary control your punishment."
I spoke up for the first time, seeing as how my fate was already sealed. It was likely that I was going to be put to death. "Think for a moment," I interjected. "Would the company really enjoy the costs of having to put me to death, and then ship my body back to earth?"
"We have to no such thing- we can simply dispose of your body here. Foolish, you are. And cheeky too. In fact, I had hard labor in mind, to get our money's worth out of you. And that is what we shall do," she said with finality.
She pressed a button on the underside of her desk, and almost at once the man she called Silver was inside the office. He took me by the arm and none-too-gently escorted my to the same ground vehicle in which we arrived. It also might not have been- neither had any distinguishing features; the efficiency of the Lunar bases was impressive if not slightly intimidating. The sharp cacaphony of drilling equipment digging tunnels filled my ears.**
After another short ride, we arrived at a rather rough hewn building- the south pole's prison. Why they kept a prison on Luna was beyond me; the authority figures could simply send any lawbreakers back earthside, and be done with them. But then again, the Lunar Colonization comittee wanted full autonomy as soon as possible; Lunar colonists already had aquaculture farms and lunar banks- the independance was coming along nicely. This prison, as I immediately saw, was sparsely inhabited.*
There were a total of 15 cells, each of which could hold up to twenty people, so why Silver put me in the only cell with a human being in it was confusing at it's clearest. After being securely locked up, I took to observing my surroundings. The human in the cell was an almost carefree looking Arab (not overly arab, Jewish looking, in fact) man who was at least 40 years of age. In a simple grey coveralls (the south polar uniform, I might add, for future reference), the slim man sat humming Tchaikovsky's Overture of 1812. When I was brought in, he looked up at me, squinted a bit, the returned to his humming.*
It wasn't that bad, his humming. It called to mind the actual composition, and actually allowed me to relax. When I sat down, he stopped.*
"So, my friend, what brings you to my humble abode?" he asked nuetrally. He had an American accent, but I couldn't identify it as being from one specific place. It sounded like a mixture of Boston as well as New York City, with the slightest hint of Providence.
"You'd never believe me if I told you," I sighed.
"Try me. I've seen some crazy stuff out here, man. Half the stuff I don't even believe myself," he chuckled.*
"Alright, it's a bit long winded, but we'll see if you believe it or not." I proceeded to tell him the story up until this point.
"Hmm... It's weird that you should end up here, rather than the north pole... The North pole has not gotten shipments in a while... And for the south pole to receive luxury items like fruit, I guess ESF has been channelling imports to the south pole," he said thoughtfully.*
"You can do that?" I asked, genuinely confused.
"Yes, you can. Escorial actually has the Chief of Cislunar shipping under their thumb, you know."*
"I actually met her. She's the reason I'm here."
"Well, that simplifies your situation. You are screwed," he said.
"How so? I can escape... Somehow..." My defensiveness made me lose rationality- in retrospect, his conclusion was by far the more logical of the two.
"I doubt it. I'm pretty much considered lost property." He held up a hand to stifle my torrent of questions. "I'll tell you everything that happened to me; it's only fair, since you spilled it all for me."
He launched into a lengthy narrative explaining his current situation. His name was Remiel Sanberg. A long time resident and native of Portland, Maine (aha, the accent!) who signed onto the fourth lunar colonization attempt made by the corporate sector. The first had been El Escorial, who staked out the choice spot for colonization on the south pole of Luna. The second and third had been Totsuro shipping company and Chiang 'xi labs at Hell crater and Tranquility base respectively (very like the Chinese to steal The US's victory from them many years later). The fourth mission was organized and paid for by Krell communications, who carved out a basic life in the rock and ice of the less-than-desireable north pole.
He had come to the south pole as an escort from Krell for of the World Organization's safety insepctors, which travelled around to tour the bases every three years, or with any major renovation or change- they usually rode along with new equipment. They need escorts because of the essential lawless roughness of the colonies. They really were beginning to resemble the American west in the 1870's- lawless and unestablished, but controlled by big business. The west of America certainly prospered; why shouldn't the lunar colonies?
The lunar colonies were autonomous, but in no way were they prospering. They were in a pertpetual state of Quasi war with one another- and the battleground was Earth. Remiel referred to it as "Space war I." as amusing as this was, it had serious implications. Since all of the Earth, perhaps minus China, India, and Indonesia (ironically, 2/3 of the population of Earth), was bogged down in a political trench war with civil liberties law, nothing could ever progress. But out here, on Luna, war was feasible, provided that the soldiers were lawyers well versed in international civil rights law. Here the law was malleable; still new. So the corporations fought to the death over controlling it. Chian Xi and El Escorial were allied in that they had a similar legal system, and Totsuro and Krell had close economic ties and genuinely intended to complement each other for mutual benefit.
Remiel had been detained for an incident in which El Escorial had staged a malfunction of an airlock in order to sue for massive reparations payments from Krell. However, the case was rejected by the wourld court, but Remiel was largely forgotton. But perhaps he wasn't forgotton by his employer, as his contraband would show.*
No guns were allowed in space as of yet; the probability of a misfire blowing a hole in the only thing between you and cold space was daunting enough that no spacer was brave or stupid enough to bring one up anyway, all laws aside.*Thus it came as a shock to me when Remiel produced one out of his coveralls. A small handgun, palm-sized.*
"Now that I have another person here, freedom should be easy. Hold still," he said, pointing the gun at me.
"Relax Remiel! Don't do anything regrettable," I said to him. I admit, I was scared that he would shoot me.*
My fears were well confirmed.
"I'm really sorry Durbain. This is the only way we'll get out. I'll explain later."
He lowered the gun to my thigh, and pulled the trigger.
<He shot you?>
Yes, that is what pulling the trigger to a gun does.
<Why?>
My, my, you are impatient. I was about to come around to that point, and I'm sure Remiel is disclosing the exact same information to your men elsewhere.
<...>
You do have him, correct? He is no longer in the control of El Escorial?
<He is in neither of our hands.>
Tell me who has him.
<Nobody does. He was killed while trying to escape.>
Oh.*
<You were saying that he shot you?>*
Yes. He made absolutely sure to only graze my skin. No major damage at all- it was mostly to get us out.
He was planning on explaining his plan to be later, but he can no longer do that. However, I have deduced what it was. I know that he shot my leg to draw the attention of the sole guard, who was sitting at his desk. I was bleeding, and the wound looked grievous enough, if you did look at it from the correct standpoint.
The guard came over, according to plan. He fumbled with keys and called for a medical unit to come and get me. While he was moving me, Remiel was able to slip past him. He ran out of the prison and into the tunnel that was outside. He called out to me,*
"I'll see you in Hell, Durbain!"
<Hell crater. >
Yes. We both knew that we had to get to Hell Crater, as it was the closest friendly colony. He likely knew how to get there, but I did not. I had to rely on my wits to get there. Presently, though I was not terribly injured, I was in no condition to escape the brute (who may I add, had a physique and complexion like Silver) of a guard. So I allowed myself to be taken away by the medical unit, who slapped a patch on my thigh and, once done, did nothing useful. I'm not entirely certain that they knew that I was supposed to be restrained, because the stood around speaking to each other in rapid Spanish. I promptly thanked them in the best Spanish I could muster (if only they had been French!) and walked calmly out of the cell. The guard was nowhere to be seen, inside the prison or out. He had been requisitioned for interegation, I deduced.*
Smelling freedom, I discarded my coveralls in one of the recycling bins at the door of the jail. I recieved a few strange looks from the medical crew, but nothing that would ultimately impede my escape. I am glad I kept my boxers and undershirt- running around nude on the moon like a deranged lunatic was an unpleasant notion.*
Down to my left, with my back to the prison, were a multitude of mining operations. To my right, a seemingly endless tunnel from which the EV's were eminating. I neared the electromagnetic rail, and waited for an empty car.*Two passed, filled with miners who looked at me as a curiosity. The third was unocupied, and stopped for me. It came as a surprise that it did, but it pleased me, because I wasn't savoring the idea of jumping onto a moving vehicle. This was the south pole's equivalent of a taxi cab. I opened the hatch, stepped inside, and set off immediately.*
It had a functional blue plastic interior that was heavily worn; nicks and scratches covered the hollow plastic seat. Miners took these taxis, so I can only deduce that transportation of their equipment was the cause of the heavy wear. There was a dim screen that prompted me in Spanish, English, and Chinese on where I wished to travel to. The northernmost selectable point on the map was, surprisingly, Hell crater.*
I had no knowledge of the colonies being linked- it must have been a tremendous undertaking to drill all the tunnels, or so I thought. So it was with great surprise that a few moments into my ride, I was brought into an airlock, and climbed several hundred feet before being brought out onto the lunar surface. The colonies really were isolated from each other; they may be technically and physically linked, but there was absolutely no point to it. The only practical application for an above-ground lunar transport was for moving goods, and even that was a risky enterprise. Meteorite strikes were common enough that cargos or whole tram lines could be lost. And was only the beginning of my problems.
The lunar/solar geometry was such that I was in the direct sunlight. With no atmosphere to protect me, I was no only being run through by Solar radiation, but also chance cosmic waves as well. My dilemna was that I might die if I returned to the Southern Pole base of Luna, and that I might die if I didn't. This was a no win situation, so I simply went with the most exciting option.*
Being an apprentice to an electrician certainly has its advantages. The seat of the EV housed the small electric motor that drove it, and it was removable for ease of maintainance; if it hadn't been, I am sure that I would have vandalized it to get to the motor. Rewiring a radio or a television is one thing, but a vehicle is another task entirely. However, I bypassed all safety circuits within 2 minutes. With this, I entered the options menu of the control screen. Happily, it had an option for running on power supplied by solar panels on the roof of the EV. I selected it, and the vehicle responded. I shot off at a good clip, averaging about the that sound waves travel at sea level on earth. There was no air resistance here, and the solar energy powering the motor was nearly limitless, and quite intense.*
The photovoltaic cells and motor must have been *new developments by Chi'an Xi. They must have been operating at 500 times the level of their Earthborn counterparts. The motor made a high pitched whining noise as I sped across the lunar landscape, and the cells seemed to be operating at about 2000% efficiency.*
<Astute observation, but the figure is closer to 1500%>
Pardon me. Were they products of any Lunar company?
<No, they were also liscenced by Clarence Kearney, the man who brought the human race the Hurling pad.>
I really need to thank Mr. Kearney; he's saved my life a few times now. How does the solar cell work?
<Well, as I am sure that you know, light stimulates certain compounds into facilitating an electron flow.>
Of course.
< Mr. Kearney's cell uses the rest of the EM spectrum to excite a myriad of compounds. The energy flow is enormous- too large for copper wires to be efficient. Mr. Kearney uses gold wiring, resulting in the great motor output you saw.>*
He's quite the man; the Thomas Edison of our time.
<That's quite a statement. How did the rest of the story go?>*
There isn't much else left to the story. I sped on for a little over an hour, and then slowed to a stop from lack of light in the airlock of your fine establishment.*
<I am impressed; I would most certainly like to employ you. We need dynamic individuals like you in my company.>
Your company? I thought Totsuro was run by a board of Directors.*
<They are. I am speaking as the founder and CEO of Kearny Enterprises, Inc. We are a small operation presently, but one with a large amount of revenue.>
You are Clarence Kearney? I'm pleased to make your aqaintance. What were you doing at Hell Crater, Totsuro's base?
<I funded the construction of a supplemental, private, laboratory here. This is where Kearny Enterprises does its space research. Totsuro didn't want a media or political scandal on their hands, so they handed you over to me.>
Media scandal? What is the terrestrial news saying about this?
<Boy, you sure provoked a reaction. The British government claimed that Spain kidnapped you, and before you knew it, sensationalized media claimed that you were dead.>
Why didn't Escorial claim otherwise?
<You remember the constitutions of the various bases? It claimed that you were to be executed as punishment for grand theft astra. If Escorial claimed that you were alive, that would be a blatent violation of Constitutional charter, and the base's liscence would have been revoked by the World Organization. Had they claimed that you had escaped, their image would have been destroyed. A Catch-22, one might say. So they said nothing.>
Not smart; they should have sacrificed their reputation, or at least blamed it in the Chinese.
<Are you mad? That is their closest trade partner! Sacrificing the Chinese would be corporate suicide.>
Good point. I almost forgot how closely the two are linked.
<Their respective governments as well. Spain took up El Escorial's cause.>
Now that's suicide.
<Not when China is your ally.>
...There was military action, wasn't there?
<Yes. China sent espionage agents to Japan to infiltrate Totsuro. They were captured by the Japanese Self-Defense Force, and the UN sided against China and Spain. Currently UN forces in Africa are clashing with Chinese soldiers. Remiel was right. This is space war I.>
Oh god... This... I've never felt so momentous; so important.
<Important isn't the word, Durbain! You facilitated a war! A war! You are more important that Gabrillo Princip; than Neville Chamberlain; than Robert bloody Jenkins!>
Will you hire me? I need to know. I need to stay off Terra. Employ is the only way to do so. Totsuro and Krell want nothing to do with me, and we all know how the Chinese and Spanish feel.
<Yes. I will. You are smart. But you are so bloody narcissistic and self-important that it's infuriating.>
I prefer to call it 'splendid isolation,' but I'll work on it.
<Yes you will.>
Kearny got up from his chair behind the one-way glass window, and gracefully flew through the door to the interrogation room. He switched off the recorder, and, unstrapped Durbain O'Reilly from the chair.*
"Thank you," the Irishman said. "Thank you very much, sir."
Grand Theft Astra
Durbain was strapped to a chair. He didn't care; he was more concerned with his leg, which still pained him, and his captor, the man behind the pane of one-way glass.
<Tell me why you are here, and how you got here.>
My name is Durbain O'Reilly. You ask me to give an account of how I came to be in my present state of seeking employment under you; I shall do so with no detail excluded, as I notice I am being taped.
<Employ?>
Yes. I wish to work for the people who saved me after I crashed.
<We'll get to that later. Tell me how you got here.>
*I guess I should start with my flaw; the one that eventually brought me here.*
My intense and consuming aravice grips me like like a chokehold; once a desire enters my mind, concious or not, it posseses me like a demon until my fevered machinations prove that they endow me with little sucess of achieving my goals. This compounding addiction is what ultimately plays me into my enemies' hands in most contests of willpower. I am easily distracted by the coy and subtle manueverings of my opponents; so much so that I sometimes lose sight of the actual objective of the competition in an effort to out-play my enemies at their own game, which they slyly and deliberatly utilize in order to gain tactical advantage over me. This is not normally a problem in contests with the intellectual peasentry, but on the occasion in which I clash with another master craftsman like myself, I am often felled almost as if by divine intervention or clairivoyant foul play. Even concious of this flaw of mine, I still still fall prey to the subtle workings of my intelectual equals. How they detect this operational deficiency, I cannot say, but when they do, it is devastating. In short, I cannot give up what I wish to pursue, and my intellectual equals recognize and exploit this flaw.
Being minion, that is to say, slight of slight of physical stature, I have historically depended on my intellectual competence to overbalance the scales in favor of me in terms of unconcious social standing. Everyone alway liked the sports teams; they were good at something physical, but my ilk and I *had to rely on mental muscles as well as social graces in order to communicate our worth to adolescent society. I had no money and no status since my parents and brother died in an automobile accident 2 years ago; I was currently being bounced around in the British Social Service program for teens; I obtained lodging in a cheap government appartment, receiving money for food and little else (since the bills were paid by His Royal Majesty) as I worked myself through high school and eventually university as an apprentice to an electician.
Personally, the subtle socio-psycological manueverings required to please and fufill the ettiquettes necesary to be a high school patrician were far beyond me. If the football team, the trained brutes, could be viewed in terms of the Spartans, powerful to begin with, and even moreso when trained, then the normal brutes (crudely put, "bullies"), are the Vikings, a sheer unadulterated physical force with no outlet but terrorizing whomever happened to stand in their path. Continuing with the western world analogy, I would classify the socialites, or self-proclaimed "preppy" students as the courtiers of the various European monarchs. They leech off the monarch, whomever is in the seat of power, and act on their every whim. Similarly, the average students are the peasants; not that they are particulary economically poor, but they suffer from the condition of being born into the state of being intellectually poorly endowed.*
However it was in the year that marked the fifteenth anniversary of the invention of*practical spaceflight in which I learned that these subpopulation demographics meant nothing. Practical spaceflight really just consisted of a ship with jet nozzles for manuevering in space and electro magnets for takeoff. The takeoff device was a line of electromagnets all angled in one direction to build up massive speed for the actual launch- which was passing though a very large orb of electromagnets, which shot the ship like a bullet straight up out of the atmosphere. It was simply called the spaceport by the commoners, or the hurling pad as all the intellectuals called it; funnily enough it was an Irishman who designed and constructed the first model- so it was with accuracy and humor in mind that it was called that by its inventor, Clarence Kearny. The spaceport also works in reverse; a ship re-enters as an old ship normally would, and passes through a vertible net of electromagnets which slowed the ship to a stop some 500 feet from the ground. The way such precision is achieved is through computer analysis of mass in the ship, and the electromags are calibrated to the exact power level necesarry to slow the ship sufficiently. I must tell you, it is an extremely gentle process, to be falling at around the speed of sound, watching the ground rushing towards you at the same speed, and then to feel a small lateral G in the direction of the earth, and slow to a stop so perfectly. It is remeniscent of an old roller coaster coming slowing down when the brakes are applied.*
But I have gotten ahead of myself. The world was reeling from this most monumental invention, and corporate colonies had recently been established on Luna, so easy was it to implement this new invention. But things changed little for my immediate situation. If this was not an invention for the benefit of the common people besides one-way transport to Luna, then what was it? A few businesses, major corporations for the most part, had gone out and built their own renderings of the hurling pad, legal or pirated. Costs were low enough so as to allow for profits even if groups of 20 people were launched, each paying a sum of 20 pounds, but we never saw anything to suggest that this was a revolutionary invention. I despaired that such a wonderful invention was being being witheld from us. Such was my duress when my situation changed for the worst, quite independent of the spaceport, however much it involved it later on.*
The head of the socialites, Richard "Ricky" Calistente, a Spanish immigrant and a strong anti-Semite (resulting of my calling him Torquemada in the comany of my fellows), offered to me a propsition. The following is an account of that conversation which set me on the course to where I am now.
"So.... Durbain. I need you for something," he said.
*
"If it's about homework, or test help, kindly return to where you came from. I cannot offer you nor anyone else help beyond what they can do for themselves." (excuse my coldness, but the general population appealed to me on a regular basis for aid in academic matters. Eventually their persistence is sufficient to withhold from them any and all aid in order to make them truly appreciate the value of knowledge. My fellows also participated in this boycott. They left us alone after a week or two.)*
"No, it's nothing like that. We (an unintentional mention of the class system- a minor breach of etttiquette on his part) have noticed that you are not like the rest of the nerds (a second slip-up, this must be serious) and we want you to come to a party that we are having tonight, well, that my father is throwing. I was hoping that maybe you would like to come?"
Never mind that Torquemada had invited me to a party, but his father was the CEO of a powerful spanish corporation with bases in England (El Escorial shipping and freight), one of the few companies that had access to a spaceport. Certainly the party could get me some pull with someone high enough up on the totem pole of corporate life to get to inspect a spaceport up close. Perhaps a ride on a low orbit run! The local spaceport itself hadn't been officially revealed to the public, but the town knew well enough.
"I'll think about it," I said. Never seem too happy to do anything. With the socialites, it is necessary to supress humanity.*
"Seriously, man, we want you to come."
He sounded desperate, but not an urgent sort of desperate. That should have alerted me to the true nature of the situation then and there.
"Fine, I shall make arrangements..."
He told me the location and time of the party. It was at his father's hurling pad, the official unveiling, I could only assume. It was all I could do to not to jump up and shout in ecstacy.*He left, and the rest of my day went on as if nothing momentous had occured. I told none of my comrades, lest they feel envious.*
Torquemada went back to his new whore; this year's model was actually fairly intelligent- perhaps she had replaced us, and that is why they stopped coming to us for aid.
That night, I was boarded the bus to that part of town and walked the rest of the way to the spaceport. I approached the front gates, and proceeded into the complex. It was dark, with the only lights coming from the empty lots surrounding the complex. It was dominated by what appeared to be a long segment of railroad tracks curving up into a bulbous globule which was on steel stilts. This was the drive mechanism. I was enticed and enthralled at the sight of it (and the ship that lay on the tracks), but noone was there. Could Torquemada have given me incorrect information, or was this a cruel joke? It was the latter, but there was more.
"Oh, hey, Durbain's here!" I heard. I was comforted, thinking that perhaps the party was in full swing somewhere not immediately visible.
Rather, I was treated to a volley of eggs from none other than Satan incarnate, Socialite leader, Joshua Ericson. The rest of his entourage was present, and soon throwing other seemingly rotten food items. I had been duped. You can imagine my shame, sadness, and intense anger at those who had lied to me. Even as I was persecuted there, I resolved to never again be caught in one of their pathetic snares. I would simply never trust again. It was my flaw that led me here. It was a common school fact that I wished for nothing more than to observe or even participate in a hurling pad launch; my flaw had allowed them to hoodwink me.
I was pursued around the complex a few times, for 15 minutes, maybe. I heard a car pull into the parking lot of the complex. The courtiers abandoned their pursuit of me, called away by their king, Torquemada. I heard a far cry of,
"Look, Seti's here!" and a carbon copy of the treatment given to me.*
Poor Seti. At least he had a car to get away in. But perhaps it is fortunate that I did not, or else I would have never been a prospective employee for you. It bacame obvious that they had set up a schedule of persecutees at set intervals. It made me sick of them, but it sadenned me greatly that none of us had told any of our fellows. This was a psycological-empathetic catch 22 if ever there was one. I wished to trust my fellows more, but I was also callous from the pain inflicted by mistrusting others.*
I stole away to where the ship lay, on the end of the hurling pad. What could I do but to hide inside it until they left? So I did. The interior was Spartan, containing cushioned seats with straps, but little else. It did have viewing ports, a basic display, and a plexiglas windscreen. I waited there for some time, watching several others get persecuted. None of them noticed me; nor did any of their persecutors. It was surreal, watching scenes play out from a nuetral point of view like that. I was the saint that escaped the lions.
In the bit of Time between the spectacles, I was able to inspect the cargo of the ship. It was nothing more than metal crates full of fruit, for shipment to Luna or one of the space stations. There was no writing on them, just harnesses to hold them down during launch and flight. It was getting late, so late, in fact, that they had time for only one more ceremony of misery. The most hated amongst us, William hatch, had arrived. I was surprised that he was not suspicious of them, being told to arrive so late for a party, assuming he was given the same information that I was. Perhaps he was suspicious. We will never know. Because they killed him. When it was his turn to take the unwarrented punishment, he fought back. It was undoubtedly the biggest mistake he ever made. He rushed them, flailing blindly in rage. The "king's horses and men" held him while he was viciously beaten before my very eyes.
<And then what happened? Tell us more.>
What more detail do you want? Do you wish to know of how his bowels released and he wailed in pain as they broke his jaw? Do you desire to here of how he choked and vomited when the continued blows forced his jawbone down his throat? I didn't think you did- do not ask me to pander to those who are enticed by such details.
Two of the curs dragged the body away. I doubt they knew he was dead (in fact it was only my intimate anatomical knowledge that suggested to me that he was), but they did know that he was grievously injured; there can be no mistake about that. By the time they returned, the rest of the group was in a circle smoking marijuana (it could have been hashish or something else of that nature, I cannnot say)- a fitting end to the night of terrors; mentally debilitating drugs are one of the four pillars of hedonism, along with sex, overindulgence at the dinner table, and excessive consumption of aldehydes and ketones. They were not, however, so mentally debilitated that they would allow me to escape if I were to attempt it. So I busied myself studying the controls of the ship.*
As it turns out, the ship was able to launch with only a command from the interior controls. There was no need for anyone to operate the remote controls on the podium outside some 30 feet away. It was all very direct; a button for launch to a preset location (either another terrestrial spaceport or one of the several on Luna), and flight controls identical to those in an aeroplane for atmospheric and low orbit manuvering. The present preset location was set for Luna, the base on the south pole thereof.*
While puzzling over the controls, I heard movment and voices from outside the ship. When I rushed to the windscreen to view what was causing the noise, I was thrust into shock and terror. What was causing the disturbance were two men in pilot's gear (I.e. oxygen helmets, g-suits, the usual ensemble) and two men in corporate business suits. The pilots (of the ship I was in, I guessed, since I never did find out) were youngish, 30 tops, but the men in business attire were considerably older, 60 perhaps. The were yelling at the fleeing socialites, Torquemada looking particularly distressed, since these were probably some of his father's corporate toadies, and would report to their boss on anything they saw.
I was terrfied and shocked because I was technically trespassing on company property, and would likely receive a massive prison sentance if I was discovered, since foreign companies like El Escorial are given preferential legal treatment. So I panicked. Panic may not be the best word for what I felt at that moment. I felt a mixture of fear, depression, fury, and shame. It vaguely occured to me that my life sucked as I nihilistically slapped my hand down on the launch button.*
My life went from sucking to streaking by. It was as if I was being shot from a gun, or I was in a rocket that was accelerating continously. My rational mind knew that I was only experiencing 4 gees (laterally, mind you), but I felt as if I was somehow sitting in a compartment on the surface of a solid Jupiter-sized planet. If that was not bad enough, as I neared the end of the oversized railgun, the incline began. I felt my now-immense body weight shift from my chest and legs to my groin. Not fun.
I was lucky I had strapped myself in beforehand, otherwise I never would have survived the field jump. I was shot through a giant orb of EM power, experiencing roughly 50 gees. I cannot say that I felt the effects of that burst, since I was jolted into unconciousness immediately.
<Most people die if they are not in gee suits at take off. You are lucky you lived.>*
I'm small. Simple as that. Divine intervention, if you like, but I need no sympathy. Regardless, the next time I was fully concious, I was in space. I observed Earth as a large globe behind me, since upon exiting the mechanism, I felt no more acceleration, and could therefore move about the inside of the ship. I knew by heart the escape speed of most hurling pad ships; I was travelling at 17740 feet per second, 5407.39 meters per second, or 12096 miles*Per hour. My act had carried me out here. I was at least lucky enough that the destination was preset, and required no manuvering, or else I would be dead. Even knowing that I would arrive at my destination, I expected to die. I cannot say why, since spaceports' receiving EM nets were always functional, and since the pilots had come and were presumably going to do pre-flight checks I couldn't be that far off their schedule. But I assume that since I expected to die when I saw Willy Hatch die, expected to die when the men in suits came, when I hit the launch button, and when I was about to pass through the EM orb, I had some fatalistic resignation.
The porthole had a wonderful and beautiful view of the Earth. I was compelled to cite lyric altered for the occasion:
Sweetest love, I do not go
**For weariness of thee,
But in hope the Moon can show
**A fitter love for me.
During the time in which I was en route to Luna, the radio was riddled with signals demanding to know whether or not there was a biotic on board. I didn't dare to respond, lest they call the ship back. The whole trip lasted not over two days. It was terribly boring once one got used to the fun of null -g, and there was no food, since the crates were unopenable without some sort of airlock, but there was at least a washroom, air, and water. I obtained the water through a clever little mechanism; the machine that recycled my air also removed air from the atmosphere in which I was contained. I had enough that I was never thirsty. Unfortunately, some of the water was recycled through the lavatory, but being a man of rationality and science, I disregarded my initial reluctance; all that was taken was pure h2o, and could in no way be contaminated. *
I slept twice, and the second time I woke up, I was on the south pole colony of Luna, immediately evidenced by the gravity- lunar gravity may be week, but after 48 hours of null-g, anything feels significant. I was shook awake by a burly bruiser in the ship. The events were as as follows:
*
"Get up, kid. You're in real deep ****." he said to me.
"What for?" I asked, feigning innocence and naivity.
"Stealing a ship, dumbass. That's punishable by death; grand theft astra, I think."
"But sir, you haven't any clue as to why. I may have a very good reason, you know."
"What a crock. You have no reason for being here; I can promise you that. I'm takin' you to the Cheif."
"Cheif of what?"
"Cheif of cislunar shipping. The chief's office is here you know. Until then..." he slapped a pair of handcuffs on me, "I'm not takin' any chances with you. I bet you are a slippery character."
I detested that man; his manner, his accent, and his poor English were unbearable. He was most certainly American, like the plurality of the Lunar immigrants. He brought me out of the ship into what appeared to be a large airlock carved into the Lunar surface. Most of the lunar colonies were underground to save materials and equipment. The airlock was like any other; grey and shielded. He brought me to a ground transport vehicle, an assumedly airtight tram that operated on EM rails, like an infinately slower version of the hurling pad. Petrol was certainly on it's way out.
On the ride to the office of cislunar shipping, he was in a state of annoyed silence. I maintained my silence as well; nothing to be gained from jawing with my captor. About halfway through the journey, he threw a pair of grey coveralls at me and temporarily unlucked the cuffs.
"Put those on- you won't be seen unless you wear them."
I changed while he looked away- I didn't strip all the way anyway; the moon was cold, so I kept my undershirts and boxers on.
Upon arrival to the office, handcuffs on, I was jostled out of the ground vehicle, and was powerless to avoid the roughness, being restrained by them; I don't think I would have done any different if I wasn't, it was my belief that assuming a role of inferiority in situations such as these can play to one's advantage. The office was a large building made of plastic and metal (aluminum, most likely) built in the space between the floor and ceiling of the cavern in which we were. The end point of the building was the ceiling of the cavern; I can only guess that the ceiling of the uppermost floor in the building would have a ceiling of lunar rock.
The doors were American old west style, like those of a saloon, but hydraulically augmented so they wouldn't swing like mad in the puny lunar gravatic force. As I was brought inside, I was shocked to find an array of men and women in business suits working in cubicles of varying tidiness, answering telephones and typing at terminals. the atmosphere was not at all different from office buildings on Earth. My jailor led me forward through the labyrinth of corporate chaos and order to a staircase, which we ascended. We walked down the hall to a room with a wooden door (certainly a bigwig or else the tenant would never have been able to afford it- wood is expensive to ship from earth) and entered without knocking. My captor stood up noticeably straighter in the presence of the cheif of cislunar shipping, who was, to my surprise, a woman. I always imagined the lunar colonies as being like the American colonies- many men and few women, at least until the colonies were established for a while. I was mistaken, as all of the Lunar colonies were private business ventures, and therefore, the employees of the Corporations that established the colonies were of the same demographic percentage as on Earth. She was a stern looking woman, with grey hair that was waging a fierce battle with her original auburn hair- a battle that it was winning. She had a tight, small mouth and a tight business jacket- she exuded an aura of uptightness, as if the slightest deviation would upset her.*
It was just my luck that she was the one in charge of my fate. "Sit down, Mr. O'Reilly." she said. "What, you didn't think we were capable of knowing that the one person missing from the town in which our spaceship was hijacked could be the culprit?" she said, assumably in response to my astonished face.*
Indeed I had been surprised when she had mentioned my name, but when she explained it like that, it seemed so obvious. In my defense, when I fled earth I wasn't exactly aiming for anonomity.
"You may leave, Mr. Silver." she said curtly to the brute.
He looked aprehensive, but with a "yes ma'am," he nonetheless departed from the office, closing the door behind him.
"Sit down, Mr. O'Reilly," she said with more force this time, gesticulating accordingly, and I did indeed sit.*
"I assume that you know why you are here? Of course you do. You hijacked a company ship, serial no. 208745. This is an offense punishable by a life sentence in accordance with the International Spaceport Bill of 2017," she said.*
I knew of the Spaceport bill; I was (and am) a space enthusiast- I also knew my punishment. The bill was adopted by all the spacefaring countires of earth, and it protected the rights and liberties of all space travellers until the body on which they were (in my case Luna) had drafted their own constitution. She was being lenient by only enacting the Bill. The lunar constitution was much stricter- drafted in large part by the Chinese, who are almost tyrannical in their treatment of their enormous population.
"However, we do things differently out here," she said. Just what I had dreaded; the lunar constitutional punishment. Age meant nothing here. There were no legal spacers under the age of 25, and were thus ignored in the constitutions. I was a dead man.
*
"We do not need court jurisdiction out here, all the company requires is evidence in order to convict a suspect. We also have direct and arbitrary control your punishment."
I spoke up for the first time, seeing as how my fate was already sealed. It was likely that I was going to be put to death. "Think for a moment," I interjected. "Would the company really enjoy the costs of having to put me to death, and then ship my body back to earth?"
"We have to no such thing- we can simply dispose of your body here. Foolish, you are. And cheeky too. In fact, I had hard labor in mind, to get our money's worth out of you. And that is what we shall do," she said with finality.
She pressed a button on the underside of her desk, and almost at once the man she called Silver was inside the office. He took me by the arm and none-too-gently escorted my to the same ground vehicle in which we arrived. It also might not have been- neither had any distinguishing features; the efficiency of the Lunar bases was impressive if not slightly intimidating. The sharp cacaphony of drilling equipment digging tunnels filled my ears.**
After another short ride, we arrived at a rather rough hewn building- the south pole's prison. Why they kept a prison on Luna was beyond me; the authority figures could simply send any lawbreakers back earthside, and be done with them. But then again, the Lunar Colonization comittee wanted full autonomy as soon as possible; Lunar colonists already had aquaculture farms and lunar banks- the independance was coming along nicely. This prison, as I immediately saw, was sparsely inhabited.*
There were a total of 15 cells, each of which could hold up to twenty people, so why Silver put me in the only cell with a human being in it was confusing at it's clearest. After being securely locked up, I took to observing my surroundings. The human in the cell was an almost carefree looking Arab (not overly arab, Jewish looking, in fact) man who was at least 40 years of age. In a simple grey coveralls (the south polar uniform, I might add, for future reference), the slim man sat humming Tchaikovsky's Overture of 1812. When I was brought in, he looked up at me, squinted a bit, the returned to his humming.*
It wasn't that bad, his humming. It called to mind the actual composition, and actually allowed me to relax. When I sat down, he stopped.*
"So, my friend, what brings you to my humble abode?" he asked nuetrally. He had an American accent, but I couldn't identify it as being from one specific place. It sounded like a mixture of Boston as well as New York City, with the slightest hint of Providence.
"You'd never believe me if I told you," I sighed.
"Try me. I've seen some crazy stuff out here, man. Half the stuff I don't even believe myself," he chuckled.*
"Alright, it's a bit long winded, but we'll see if you believe it or not." I proceeded to tell him the story up until this point.
"Hmm... It's weird that you should end up here, rather than the north pole... The North pole has not gotten shipments in a while... And for the south pole to receive luxury items like fruit, I guess ESF has been channelling imports to the south pole," he said thoughtfully.*
"You can do that?" I asked, genuinely confused.
"Yes, you can. Escorial actually has the Chief of Cislunar shipping under their thumb, you know."*
"I actually met her. She's the reason I'm here."
"Well, that simplifies your situation. You are screwed," he said.
"How so? I can escape... Somehow..." My defensiveness made me lose rationality- in retrospect, his conclusion was by far the more logical of the two.
"I doubt it. I'm pretty much considered lost property." He held up a hand to stifle my torrent of questions. "I'll tell you everything that happened to me; it's only fair, since you spilled it all for me."
He launched into a lengthy narrative explaining his current situation. His name was Remiel Sanberg. A long time resident and native of Portland, Maine (aha, the accent!) who signed onto the fourth lunar colonization attempt made by the corporate sector. The first had been El Escorial, who staked out the choice spot for colonization on the south pole of Luna. The second and third had been Totsuro shipping company and Chiang 'xi labs at Hell crater and Tranquility base respectively (very like the Chinese to steal The US's victory from them many years later). The fourth mission was organized and paid for by Krell communications, who carved out a basic life in the rock and ice of the less-than-desireable north pole.
He had come to the south pole as an escort from Krell for of the World Organization's safety insepctors, which travelled around to tour the bases every three years, or with any major renovation or change- they usually rode along with new equipment. They need escorts because of the essential lawless roughness of the colonies. They really were beginning to resemble the American west in the 1870's- lawless and unestablished, but controlled by big business. The west of America certainly prospered; why shouldn't the lunar colonies?
The lunar colonies were autonomous, but in no way were they prospering. They were in a pertpetual state of Quasi war with one another- and the battleground was Earth. Remiel referred to it as "Space war I." as amusing as this was, it had serious implications. Since all of the Earth, perhaps minus China, India, and Indonesia (ironically, 2/3 of the population of Earth), was bogged down in a political trench war with civil liberties law, nothing could ever progress. But out here, on Luna, war was feasible, provided that the soldiers were lawyers well versed in international civil rights law. Here the law was malleable; still new. So the corporations fought to the death over controlling it. Chian Xi and El Escorial were allied in that they had a similar legal system, and Totsuro and Krell had close economic ties and genuinely intended to complement each other for mutual benefit.
Remiel had been detained for an incident in which El Escorial had staged a malfunction of an airlock in order to sue for massive reparations payments from Krell. However, the case was rejected by the wourld court, but Remiel was largely forgotton. But perhaps he wasn't forgotton by his employer, as his contraband would show.*
No guns were allowed in space as of yet; the probability of a misfire blowing a hole in the only thing between you and cold space was daunting enough that no spacer was brave or stupid enough to bring one up anyway, all laws aside.*Thus it came as a shock to me when Remiel produced one out of his coveralls. A small handgun, palm-sized.*
"Now that I have another person here, freedom should be easy. Hold still," he said, pointing the gun at me.
"Relax Remiel! Don't do anything regrettable," I said to him. I admit, I was scared that he would shoot me.*
My fears were well confirmed.
"I'm really sorry Durbain. This is the only way we'll get out. I'll explain later."
He lowered the gun to my thigh, and pulled the trigger.
<He shot you?>
Yes, that is what pulling the trigger to a gun does.
<Why?>
My, my, you are impatient. I was about to come around to that point, and I'm sure Remiel is disclosing the exact same information to your men elsewhere.
<...>
You do have him, correct? He is no longer in the control of El Escorial?
<He is in neither of our hands.>
Tell me who has him.
<Nobody does. He was killed while trying to escape.>
Oh.*
<You were saying that he shot you?>*
Yes. He made absolutely sure to only graze my skin. No major damage at all- it was mostly to get us out.
He was planning on explaining his plan to be later, but he can no longer do that. However, I have deduced what it was. I know that he shot my leg to draw the attention of the sole guard, who was sitting at his desk. I was bleeding, and the wound looked grievous enough, if you did look at it from the correct standpoint.
The guard came over, according to plan. He fumbled with keys and called for a medical unit to come and get me. While he was moving me, Remiel was able to slip past him. He ran out of the prison and into the tunnel that was outside. He called out to me,*
"I'll see you in Hell, Durbain!"
<Hell crater. >
Yes. We both knew that we had to get to Hell Crater, as it was the closest friendly colony. He likely knew how to get there, but I did not. I had to rely on my wits to get there. Presently, though I was not terribly injured, I was in no condition to escape the brute (who may I add, had a physique and complexion like Silver) of a guard. So I allowed myself to be taken away by the medical unit, who slapped a patch on my thigh and, once done, did nothing useful. I'm not entirely certain that they knew that I was supposed to be restrained, because the stood around speaking to each other in rapid Spanish. I promptly thanked them in the best Spanish I could muster (if only they had been French!) and walked calmly out of the cell. The guard was nowhere to be seen, inside the prison or out. He had been requisitioned for interegation, I deduced.*
Smelling freedom, I discarded my coveralls in one of the recycling bins at the door of the jail. I recieved a few strange looks from the medical crew, but nothing that would ultimately impede my escape. I am glad I kept my boxers and undershirt- running around nude on the moon like a deranged lunatic was an unpleasant notion.*
Down to my left, with my back to the prison, were a multitude of mining operations. To my right, a seemingly endless tunnel from which the EV's were eminating. I neared the electromagnetic rail, and waited for an empty car.*Two passed, filled with miners who looked at me as a curiosity. The third was unocupied, and stopped for me. It came as a surprise that it did, but it pleased me, because I wasn't savoring the idea of jumping onto a moving vehicle. This was the south pole's equivalent of a taxi cab. I opened the hatch, stepped inside, and set off immediately.*
It had a functional blue plastic interior that was heavily worn; nicks and scratches covered the hollow plastic seat. Miners took these taxis, so I can only deduce that transportation of their equipment was the cause of the heavy wear. There was a dim screen that prompted me in Spanish, English, and Chinese on where I wished to travel to. The northernmost selectable point on the map was, surprisingly, Hell crater.*
I had no knowledge of the colonies being linked- it must have been a tremendous undertaking to drill all the tunnels, or so I thought. So it was with great surprise that a few moments into my ride, I was brought into an airlock, and climbed several hundred feet before being brought out onto the lunar surface. The colonies really were isolated from each other; they may be technically and physically linked, but there was absolutely no point to it. The only practical application for an above-ground lunar transport was for moving goods, and even that was a risky enterprise. Meteorite strikes were common enough that cargos or whole tram lines could be lost. And was only the beginning of my problems.
The lunar/solar geometry was such that I was in the direct sunlight. With no atmosphere to protect me, I was no only being run through by Solar radiation, but also chance cosmic waves as well. My dilemna was that I might die if I returned to the Southern Pole base of Luna, and that I might die if I didn't. This was a no win situation, so I simply went with the most exciting option.*
Being an apprentice to an electrician certainly has its advantages. The seat of the EV housed the small electric motor that drove it, and it was removable for ease of maintainance; if it hadn't been, I am sure that I would have vandalized it to get to the motor. Rewiring a radio or a television is one thing, but a vehicle is another task entirely. However, I bypassed all safety circuits within 2 minutes. With this, I entered the options menu of the control screen. Happily, it had an option for running on power supplied by solar panels on the roof of the EV. I selected it, and the vehicle responded. I shot off at a good clip, averaging about the that sound waves travel at sea level on earth. There was no air resistance here, and the solar energy powering the motor was nearly limitless, and quite intense.*
The photovoltaic cells and motor must have been *new developments by Chi'an Xi. They must have been operating at 500 times the level of their Earthborn counterparts. The motor made a high pitched whining noise as I sped across the lunar landscape, and the cells seemed to be operating at about 2000% efficiency.*
<Astute observation, but the figure is closer to 1500%>
Pardon me. Were they products of any Lunar company?
<No, they were also liscenced by Clarence Kearney, the man who brought the human race the Hurling pad.>
I really need to thank Mr. Kearney; he's saved my life a few times now. How does the solar cell work?
<Well, as I am sure that you know, light stimulates certain compounds into facilitating an electron flow.>
Of course.
< Mr. Kearney's cell uses the rest of the EM spectrum to excite a myriad of compounds. The energy flow is enormous- too large for copper wires to be efficient. Mr. Kearney uses gold wiring, resulting in the great motor output you saw.>*
He's quite the man; the Thomas Edison of our time.
<That's quite a statement. How did the rest of the story go?>*
There isn't much else left to the story. I sped on for a little over an hour, and then slowed to a stop from lack of light in the airlock of your fine establishment.*
<I am impressed; I would most certainly like to employ you. We need dynamic individuals like you in my company.>
Your company? I thought Totsuro was run by a board of Directors.*
<They are. I am speaking as the founder and CEO of Kearny Enterprises, Inc. We are a small operation presently, but one with a large amount of revenue.>
You are Clarence Kearney? I'm pleased to make your aqaintance. What were you doing at Hell Crater, Totsuro's base?
<I funded the construction of a supplemental, private, laboratory here. This is where Kearny Enterprises does its space research. Totsuro didn't want a media or political scandal on their hands, so they handed you over to me.>
Media scandal? What is the terrestrial news saying about this?
<Boy, you sure provoked a reaction. The British government claimed that Spain kidnapped you, and before you knew it, sensationalized media claimed that you were dead.>
Why didn't Escorial claim otherwise?
<You remember the constitutions of the various bases? It claimed that you were to be executed as punishment for grand theft astra. If Escorial claimed that you were alive, that would be a blatent violation of Constitutional charter, and the base's liscence would have been revoked by the World Organization. Had they claimed that you had escaped, their image would have been destroyed. A Catch-22, one might say. So they said nothing.>
Not smart; they should have sacrificed their reputation, or at least blamed it in the Chinese.
<Are you mad? That is their closest trade partner! Sacrificing the Chinese would be corporate suicide.>
Good point. I almost forgot how closely the two are linked.
<Their respective governments as well. Spain took up El Escorial's cause.>
Now that's suicide.
<Not when China is your ally.>
...There was military action, wasn't there?
<Yes. China sent espionage agents to Japan to infiltrate Totsuro. They were captured by the Japanese Self-Defense Force, and the UN sided against China and Spain. Currently UN forces in Africa are clashing with Chinese soldiers. Remiel was right. This is space war I.>
Oh god... This... I've never felt so momentous; so important.
<Important isn't the word, Durbain! You facilitated a war! A war! You are more important that Gabrillo Princip; than Neville Chamberlain; than Robert bloody Jenkins!>
Will you hire me? I need to know. I need to stay off Terra. Employ is the only way to do so. Totsuro and Krell want nothing to do with me, and we all know how the Chinese and Spanish feel.
<Yes. I will. You are smart. But you are so bloody narcissistic and self-important that it's infuriating.>
I prefer to call it 'splendid isolation,' but I'll work on it.
<Yes you will.>
Kearny got up from his chair behind the one-way glass window, and gracefully flew through the door to the interrogation room. He switched off the recorder, and, unstrapped Durbain O'Reilly from the chair.*
"Thank you," the Irishman said. "Thank you very much, sir."