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theoriginalkidwithapen · 4 years

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Principia – De Motu Corporum XIII

Content Warning: References to the Tet Offensive, references to sex work, references to sexual harassment and coersion, drinking, references to military conscription, disrespect for the dead, organized crime, references to brutal murder and indentured servitude, non-sexual nudity, references to childhood trauma, forklift accidents, foul language, weapons smuggling

“There being given, in any places, the velocity with which a body describes a given figure, by means of forces directed to some common centre: to find that centre.”

– Sir Issac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

Finchley glanced briefly at the image of the buff, muscular, waxed, glistening young man flexing his biceps suggestively before swiping left on the dating app. The image of the man was replaced with one of a buxom Persian woman in a flattering white bikini, her soft olive skin as smooth and glossy as a bowling alley. The looping image kept blowing kisses and winking seductively. Finchley swiped left again. Finchley’s person of interest, Konstantin Dibra, had profiles on 17 different Lunar dating apps, and he had spent the last three weeks combing through Dibra’s matches, looking for whomever might be his mystery girlfriend. Finchley had Dibra’s profile image open in another window for comparison, since the woman who went to his job site in his place was difficult to distinguish from him on the Residence’s security monitors. The chippendale was out because he was male, and the Persian prize because of the obvious difference in skin complexion. Finchley knew that this would, at best, only give him a face to go on, as one of this particular app’s selling points was that no real names were used, and that all interactions were securely encrypted to protect their users’ privacy. Of course, it made police work a chore, since nearly 300 years of data protection laws meant that technology companies didn’t have to surrender user data or provide law enforcement with backdoors into their products. So, if Finchley wanted to identify any of the matches here, he’d have to apply a facial recognition algorithm to their profile images, and there was no telling how many of them were deepfakes or catfishers. Indeed, the only reason why Finchley was able to gain access to Dibra’s profile was because Dibra registered it with his work email account, which LSU graciously provided him with access to. Public sector corporations weren’t subject to data protection laws, after all. A Filipino lolita. Swipe left.

A Romani gentleman in a suit sharp enough to cut steel. Swipe left. Nguyen looked at the next profile from over Finchley’s shoulder, a Chinese dominatrix. “If you told me that you were into Asian women in skintight leather underwear,” she said sardonically, “I’ve got a corset I think I can still fit into that would do the trick.” Finchley swiped left, the image’s banishment coinciding with a fleshy smacking sound as she swung her riding crop. “No,” he grumbled in frustration as he swiped another profile in the sinister direction, “I’m not too keen on being restrained and beaten, thanks, and if I wanted torment and agony during sex, I’d go back to Sinead. No, I’m just trying to find ‘SumpMonster69’s’ mystery girlfriend here.” A Zulu hunk. Swipe left. “Well, I suggest you take a break,” Nguyen said as she presented Finchley with a red envelope with elaborate Vietnamese detailing in gold, “Chúc mừng năm mới. Happy Lunar New Year.” “Year 325?” Finchley read on the envelope. “It’s been 325 years since the Tet Offensive in 1968, according to the Chinese lunisolar calendar,” Nguyen explained, “Not only does it coincide with the Lunar New Year, but it also celebrates the defeat of French and American imperialists, and the beginning of Vietnamese self-governance.” “Speaking as a member of a people who suffered under generations of European imperialism, I can sympathise,” Finchley said as he took the envelope, “Thank you, Anh. Is there some sort of ritual associated with this, or should I open it now?” “Traditionally, you wait until I’m no longer present,” Nguyen replied, “and then spend the money inside on toys or games of chance.” “There’s hard currency inside?” Finchley asked, surprised. “Of course not,” Nguyen said, “There’s a gift card in there. Since we’re ignoring tradition anyway, why don’t you open it?” Finchley did so, and found inside a plastic slip colored black with lurid pink and blue designs in a neon light motif. Appearing to rise off of the glossy coupon was a ghostly red silhouette of an attractive woman in a tight dress, bent at the waist and blowing a kiss from her luscious lavender lips, but both its volume and motion were optical illusions. Printed on its surface were the words, “Find love at Club Elle Vous Aime” in the sultry pink of a helium lamp. “Dear,” Finchley asked, “why do you want me to go to a hostess bar?” “It’s not what you think, nguoi yeu,” Nguyen assured, “This is your cover, for following up on a lead I have.” “What lead?” Finchley asked. “Apparently, Dibra frequented this establishment whenever he had an hour or two free,” Nguyen clarified, “The night before he disappeared, he spent 2 hours, 41 minutes, and 9 seconds there.” “How much is on this?” Finchley inquired. “10,000 GEOs,” Nguyen answered, “Enough for a 2-hour cover charge and some drinks and a tip for your lovely hostess. Just remember that you’re there to work.” “Yes, dear,” Finchley said. As he stood up, he accidentally swiped left on the dating app, and the image of a Slovenian woman in a beguiling red tube dress standing in the same pose as the silhouette on Finchley’s gift card, blowing the same kiss. “Hold on a moment,” Finchley said, “Computer, identify that woman.” The wireframe of the facial recognition algorithm did its work, and a file came up. “Vesna Novak, born July 20th, 2269 in Ljubljana, Republic of Slovenia, European Alliance, Earth,” Finchley read, “Lived on social security until 2286, when she won third place in the Miss Europe beauty pageant and was hired by the Paramount Modelling Group. She was separated from PMG following a sex scandal involving the owner, Prime-Minister-in-Waiting George Paramount, several executives, and a number of unidentified models working for the company. She used her generous severance package to relocate to the Lunar colonies in 2290, and she’s been employed – bloody hell – at Club Elle Vous Aime ever since. She might be the mystery girlfriend we’re looking for.” “I believe you have an appointment with a hostess,” Nguyen encouraged.

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Jon nursed his kokuhai at the enclave’s bar, closely monitoring his blood alcohol content level with the appropriate implant. The whiskey they used here had more of a bite than he was accustomed to, but it was a welcome difference. A petite Black woman in a petite black bodyshaper with lavender lace and matching stockings sat down next to him, crossed her legs, and propped her head up with her elbow as she gazed at him warmly. “You waitin’ for someone, captain?” she asked him. “No, not really,” he replied. “Oh,” she said disappointedly, “It’s just you ain’t hardly touched your highball, there.” “Ah,” Jon answered as he awkwardly glanced at his drink, “I can see how you might get the wrong impression. I’m Martian – we tend to nurse our drinks.” “Why?” she asked, curious. “It’s against the law to be intoxicated on Mars,” Jon explained, “It’s a public health and safety issue. Drunks might damage or foul up fragile life support equipment or otherwise menace the colony.” “Why don’t they just ban drinkin’?” she asked, less curious than before.

“Alcohol is too easy to make for prohibition to be effective, and there’s a definite morale boost from allowing limited consumption,” Jon continued, “We have a saying, ‘a person who pours their own drinks has a fool for a bartender.’” “Oh,” she remarked, bored, “that’s cool…”

“I’m sorry… What was your name again?” Jon began. “Shaniqua,” she muttered as she ran her fingers through her shoulder-length frizzy afro. “Shaniqua, my bad,” Jon apologized, “I’m not your type, and the reason I know that is because I’m aro-ace. There’s no way you could have known, and I apologize if I misled you. If you want, I’ll pay you for the hour. If you want to sit here and talk, I’ll buy you drinks, and if you’d rather go find someone else, that’s fine too – you do you.” “It’s cool, bruh,” Shaniqua said as she flagged down the bartender, “Diyar, a Tequila Mockingbird, extra watermelon. He’s buyin’.” “Conversation it is,” Jon said as he took a sip from his drink, “So, Shaniqua, what got you into the oldest profession?” The bartender brought Shaniqua her drink, which she took a sip from. “I was trained as a CNA,” she began, “an’ I was one a’ the lucky Loonies who got a job, takin’ care of the old folks at the Roosa Retirement Community in Antares City.” “Home of the Alan B. Shepard Memorial Golf Course,” Jon commented, “I hear they’ve got his golf club and the one ball they could find on display there.” “‘A 1962 Wilson Staff Dynapower six-iron club head fitted to an Apollo Lunar Excavation Tool handle,’” Shaniqua quoted, “Yeah, I seen it. Mailboxed like everything else back then.” “So why did you leave a rare nursing job?” Jon asked. “My cousin told me about the Organization,” Shaniqua answered, “an’ I figgered if I’m gonna be fucked by old Earther men and treated like the help, I might as well make a better wage, right?” “That’s as good a reason as any,” Jon commented, “How do you like it?” “It’s a grind, like any other,” Shaniqua opined, “but it ain’t so bad. Ain’t many jobs where you get to dress all sexy like this and get free drinks.” She flicked one of her golden hoop earrings. “So what’s a Martian doin’ all the way out here on Luna?” she asked Jon. “When I was a 6th year cadet,” Jon began, “My CASSVA results indicated that I’d excel in STEM, spacecraft operations, and information synthesis, so I focused on flight control and got my astronaut certification when I started my duty tour with the Militia.” “You joined the military to become an astronaut?” Shaniqua asked. “I joined because I had to,” Jon clarified, “I stayed because I wanted to do my part to make Mars live again.” “They make you become a soldier?” she wondered. “‘To instill and preserve the discipline, excellence, and spirit of community that continued survival of human civilization on Mars requires, the institution of universal conscription is a necessary sacrifice,’” Jon quoted, “Bellatrix Ransom, one of Mars’ most prominent political philosophers in the 22nd century. She correctly argued that a self-governing Mars would have to take what Earthers would consider drastic measures in order to avoid generational collapse.” “That’s cool, bruh,” Shaniqua said before taking another sip. “Captain Orvar,” said a familiar voice from behind, “I was hoping I’d find you here.” “Sharqi,” Jon diagnosed without turning to look at him, “To what do I owe the displeasure?” “Somehow, I think you’ll want to have this conversation in private,” Sharqi replied. “That bad, huh?” Jon asked, concerned, “I’m sorry, Shaniqua, I have to go.” He pointed to Misty, who was playing one of the blackjack tables. “I share a marriage with that Spaceborn woman over there,” she said, “She likes women, too, if you want some more company.” Jon stood up, knocked back the rest of his drink, slapped the glass onto a nearby hedgehog, and followed Sharqi up the stairs to the champagne room.

“So,” Jon asked, “What’s your problem, and why do you need my help to solve it?” “I’m sure you’ve heard of the assassination of Governor Najjar last month, may peace forever be just outside his grasp,” Sharqi began. “It might have been mentioned a bit in the news, all day every day,” Jon answered sarcastically. “Quite,” Sharqi continued, “The colonial government have pinned the blame on the Selenite Liberation Front, which means government raids on Organisation front businesses and safehouses. Naturally, this situation is intolerable.” “You are aware that I can’t interfere in the domestic affairs of United Earth without orders, right?” Jon asked. “And I would never ask you to do anything to jeopardise our friendship,” Sharqi replied, “however, I have reason to believe that someone in the Organisation may have ordered his murder, and I need someone on the outside to help me deliver them to the investigation team and negotiate an end to these crackdowns on our business.” “Is there a specific someone, or do I need to figure that out as well?” Jon asked. “Actually, they’re two someones,” Sharqi clarified, “Jingyi and Rong She, the Dragon Twins, or the Two-Headed Snake if you have a death wish. They run weapons and extortion rackets in cislunar space.” “They sound like lovely people,” Jon jibbed, “Let me guess, the last person who called them that got fed to the municipal sushi maker?” “Yeah, Jingyi has a bad temper,” Sharqi affirmed, “By the time LSU found her, she was a full week dead and covered in so many carp bites that they could only identify her from her dental records.” “And you want me to go kidnap them?” Jon asked, “I thought you wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize our friendship.” “Not kidnap them,” Sharqi specified, “At least, not yet. I want you to meet with them first, and find out what they know.” “If that’s all you want,” Jon inquired, “why don’t you talk to them yourself?” “They haven’t communicated with me all month,” Sharqi explained, “As far as they’re concerned, my ascension is illegitimate because I had outside help. I suspect you’d have better luck.” “All right,” Jon consented, “but if this meeting goes south, I’ll be back to have words with you, and by ‘words,’ I mean ‘bullets.’” “I’d expect nothing less from one of those infamous Martian spooks,” Sharqi replied, “Now, the twins keep their headquarters in the Southern Caverns’ Fabrication District, in a hole allegedly sealed off due to an exposed cadmium vein.” “There’s really no cadmium, right?” Jon asked. “The Organisation secretly depleted the vein to make black market solar panels five years ago,” Sharqi said, “They made people who couldn’t pay off their debts dig it out, and let them breathe deeply from that contaminated air.”

“The sisters themselves could be described as a confluence of human biodiversity,” Sharqi continued, “They’re conjoined twins, fused at the neck to look like a person with two heads. Jingyi is the left twin, Rong is the right one – it would be best not to confuse them. When you speak to them, direct your statements to Rong – otherwise, Jingyi might just have you killed because you annoyed her.” “All right, I’ll talk with them,” Jon agreed, “and if conversation fails, we’ll try bullets.” “Good, I’ll look forward to hearing your progress,” Sharqi said as he opened the door for Jon. Jon exited the room and headed back towards the bar. He called Peregrine and his crew with the appropriate eye movements. “All right, people, we have an assignment,” he said clandestinely, “Tallen, meet me at the Fabrication District in the Southern Caverns with your briefcase, coordinates are coming shortly. Misty, I need you to go back to Peregrine and monitor our status from there, clear?” “Clear,” they all responded in unison.

Sara set the crate she was carrying down onto the pallet and wiped the sweat off of her brow with her sleeve. It had taken her a couple weeks, but walking in 1/6th g finally felt natural to her.

Honestly, the one thing she still had trouble adjusting to was the fact that here, she could lift 90-kilogram boxes with minimal difficulty.

A lift rover pulled up, sliding its forks into the appropriate slots in the pallet, and then positioned its manipulator arms to steady the stack of crates on top. The operator standing on the control deck in one of the rover’s two suitports, pushed up their helmet’s faceplate, revealing the espresso-hued face of Tahlia.

“Ay, Sookie!” she called out to Sara using her now-affectionate nickname, “This job’s done! Wanna go learn to drive the rover?”

“Yeah, deadly ay?” Sara replied, “Let’s go!”

“Enter the cabin through the hatch in the rear,” Tahlia directed, “I’ll walk you through the rest!”

Sara used a trick he picked up from her coworkers and jumped up onto the mechanical tire of the rear wheel, and grabbed one of the rear handrails on the rebound, using her momentum to swing onto the top step of the ladder leading to the rear hatch. She didn’t quite stick the landing, though, and instead of precisely planting her feet on the step, she ended up colliding with the bulkhead.

Fortunately, the only damage sustained was to her pride. She pulled herself up with one arm and opened the hatch.

The inside of the cabin was cramped, with little standing room and a couple seats tucked into the nooks and crannies between storage compartments and air circulation grilles. Tahlia was already inside, wearing nothing but the absorbent waste sequestration garment that all dockers wore under their pressure suits. Another thing that Sara hadn’t yet adjusted to was the casual attitude toward public nudity that Moonfullas had. In her apartment complex, it wasn’t uncommon for whole Moonfulla mobs, parents and children, to run errands or play in the tunnels wearing nothing but what nature gave them.

Although she was no stranger to seeing naked people, the fact that there was no shame, stigma, embarrassment, or sexualization attached to it was a far cry from prob life in the Wards.

“First, let’s get that hatch sealed and your suit off,” Tahlia instructed. Sara sealed the hatch, then got to stripping off her pressure suit, revealing the tank top she wore in addition to her own space diaper. She put her pressure suit away in one of the cabinets and opened the hatch to the portside suitport.

The suitport had two hatches – the door mounted on the rover and the door inside the spacesuit’s backpack. Sara slid into the suit feet-first, and once her posterior was resting on the seat of its lower half, she extended her arms into the sleeves and in one elegant motion ducked her head into the helmet and got her hands into the gloves.

She reached down for the ratchet handle on her left side and pumped it until both doors closed and sealed. The indicator lights changed from red to green, and Sara tapped the indicator light test button, just as Tahlia had shown her. Green lights, just like before.

Next, she checked her air tanks. 42% oxygen, 58% nitrogen – a good ratio at the air pressure at the docks, 57 kilopascals. Her suit’s umbilical connection to the rover was good, and the internal tanks were reading good for three hours. Air circulation was nominal, batteries were fully charged, radio was transmitting and receiving. The suit’s computer was connected to the rover’s local network. Location services were on. She was good to go.

Although the helmet didn’t turn, there was enough room inside for her to look in pretty much any direction, such as to her right to see Tahlia in the starboard side suit. Her heads-up display was showing her all kinds of useful information – an artificial horizon with bearings and a tilt indicator, a speed gauge which read zero at the moment, a weight load dial with a center-of-mass indicator, active radar and blind spot monitors, fork and arm orientation displays – a wealth of data at her command to help ensure that she could operate this cyclopean machine safely.

“The stick on your right is for steering and acceleration,” Tahlia began, “and the knob on your left controls the forks. Go on, try and pick that pallet up.”

Sara pulled back on the knob, and the forks lifted the pallet up off the ground much more sharply than she expected – after all, that pallet had more than 1,700 kilograms of magnesium bar stock loaded onto it. She kicked herself for forgetting that it only weighed a fraction of that here on the Moon.

“Watch it, Sookie!” Tahlia said just as sharply, “These rovers were designed by Earthfullas, so they’ve got six times the power we need here on Luna.”

“I’m sorry,” Sara said reflexively.

“Don’t be sorry, sistagirl,” Tahlia said reassuringly, “It’s your first time, unna? Try it more slowly this time and use the thumbstick to tilt the forks back.”

Sara cautiously tilted the thumbstick on the fork controls, and watched as the pitch indicator for the mast rolled back to its 5º maximum.

“That’s him!” Tahlia cheered, “Now, check your scopes to make sure the area around us is clear, then push forwards on the stick to drive ahead.”

Sara made sure there was no one around, and then tilted the stick forward. The rover lurched ahead violently, startling Sara, who let go of the controls. Just as violently, the rover stopped. Sara stopped to catch her breath, and turned to face Tahlia.

“What did I just say about the motors on this thing?” Tahlia barked, “What did I pacifically say?”

“This rover has too much power ‘cause Earthfullas built it,” Sara answered.

“Be gentle with the stick now,” Tahlia instructed, “Try not to exceed 2.2 metres per second, ay?”

“Yes, Tahli,” Sara replied sheepishly, and manipulated the controls more gingerly than before. The rover drove more smoothly this time.

“That’s solid,” Tahlia siad, “Now, this one goes down to aisle 51, row 18. You know the way?”

“I’ve been working here a month,” Sara answered, “I know my way around.” She drove the rover around a corner, down a couple avenues, and around another corner to row 18, and then proceeded toward aisle 51.

“No ‘auntie’ today?” Tahlia inquired.

“No, Tahli,” Sara said quietly, “I had a… bad experience with someone who made me call her ‘aunt’ back on Earth.”

“All right, Sookie,” Tahlia answered, “no more ‘auntie,’ ay, sistagirl?”

“Dardi,” Sara replied. They drove on in silence for a moment.

“Tahli,” Sara asked, “where did you learn to drive one of these?”

“My mum taught me when I was a little fulla,” Tahlia answered, “Got my Claddie License when I grew big enough to wear the suit.”

“‘Claddie License?’”

“Got no formal training or government license,” Tahlia clarified, “but I’ve got the skills I need to get the job done. You won’t tell the Earthgubbahs, unna?”

“Aunt Marie didn’t raise no snitch,” Sara replied.

“True that, Sookie,” Tahlia affirmed, “We’re coming up on it now.” Sara relaxed the stick a little to slow the rover down.

There was a gap in the gaylords on the right, where there was room to stack a third pallet on top of two others.

“Turn on your alignment indicators, darlen,” Tahlia instructed. Sara looked at the touchscreen on her suit’s forearm, and after some trial and error located the alignment indicator toggle. She cautiously maneuvered the rover until the guiding lines on her HUD changed from amber to green, showing that the pallet on the rover’s forks was lined up with the stack.

Sara pushed upward on the fork control knob, and the pallet rose up into the air. Until it had been lifted above the lip of the stack, her display was giving her clearance warnings. She rolled the rover right up to the stack, tilted the forks until they were level, and then set the pallet down on top of the stack.

“That’s him!” Tahlia congratulated her, “I’ll release the arms, and then we can go to the next job, ay?”

Tahlia tapped her suit’s touchscreen a couple times, then placed her arms in the air as if she were holding the top of the load steady with her own hands, and then let go and pulled her hands back, the rover’s manipulator arms matching her movements precisely.

“Hey, Tahlia,” a feminine voice called out over the radio, “the shipments for that wargubbah vessel are buried under ten pallets of classified payload! How do you want to get at them?”

Sara’s starboard monitor showed three people in pressure suits approaching the rover – Charles, Dennis, and Rosie Leah. Making sure there was no one nearby, she pulled back on the stick, rolling the rover backwards and sliding the forks out from beneath the pallet.

“Did you sing out to Senior Chief Quartermaster Grgić about sending down a team with clearance to shift ‘em?” Tahlia asked.

“Aye, boss,” Rosie replied, “The cargo we want ain’t classified, so they won’t send anyone to take care of it for us.”

“Well, fuck,” Tahlia exclaimed, “Ay, listen up, now. Someone’s gotta go shift all that and not tell a soul. Charles, you’re elected. I’m gonna flog you if that shipment’s not on its way to the spider within the hour, true?”

“Ayy, auntie girl!” Charles affirmed, and loped his way back.

What happened next happened so fast that Sara almost didn’t follow it. The rigid plastic gaylord on the bottom pallet of the stack buckled, causing the middle one to tilt and the top pallet to tumble off, crashing onto the rover’s safety cage and bounce in the low lunar gravity onto the floor, spilling its contents with a resounding clatter.

“Goddammit!” Sara roared in frustration as she slammed her closed fist onto the seat arm, “Motherfucking piece of shit!”

“Sookie, disconnect your suit before I bust you up!” Tahlia ordered as she detached her suit from the suitport.

Rosie Leah and Dennis hopped over to inspect the damage. “Yeah, good job now,” Rosie commented, “That’s payback for lettin’ Sookie here drive.”

“That was Sookie driving?” Dennis asked in astonishment, “Daaaaymn, she’s gettin’ her Claddie License revoked, ay?”

“I was just training her,” Tahlia said as Sara dismounted and examined the mess.

One of the crates that Sara had loaded not ten minutes before had busted open. She pulled back one of the panels to reveal that the box was full of guns. Sara took out one of them, an assault rifle, and called out to the others.

“Ay, fullas!” she said, “Here la!”

Tahlia and the others came around to see. Sara gestured with the rifle.

“Ain’t this pallet supposed to be loaded with metal bar stock?” Sara asked.

Tahlia took the gun and gestured angrily with it. “What the fuck is this shit, coonie cuttas!?” she demanded.

Rosie took the rifle and looked it over with a shit-eating grin on her face. “They finally arrived!” she declared triumphantly, “It’s about damn time!”

“What?” Tahlia spat in disbelief.

“We ordered these arms ages ago!” Rosie clarified as she looked down its sights with glee, “I was gettin’ worried that they wouldn’t get here in time for the general strike tomorrow!”

“And what, exactly, were you planning to do with these there?” Tahlia interrogated.

“Defend ourselves in case the Earthgubbahs try to bust us up,” Dennis answered as he took the weapon from Rosie, “We have no intention of lettin’ ‘em turn our picket line into a massacre site.”

“Are you fullas ignorant, or what!?” Tahlia yelled as she grabbed the rifle from Dennis angrily, “All these’ll do is provoke those gubbahs into havin’ a go at us!”

“Earthgubbahs won’t do nothing to damage their pretty green spaces,” Dennis argued, “so not even, tidda.”

“I’m gonna sing out to my dad,” Tahlia grumbled as she climbed back aboard the rover, “We’ll have a corroboree to decide this issue.”

“Gorn den,” Dennis said, “Most of the community are in favour of standin’ up for our rights.”

“Fuck you fullas, I’m goin’ walkabout!” Tahlia cured as she drove the rover away.

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theoriginalkidwithapen · 4 years

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Principia – De Motu Corporum XI

CW: politics, foul language, abuse, violence against children, death, murder, drinking, generational trauma, alcoholism

Moreover... we may discover the proportion of a centripetal force to any other known force, such as that of gravity. For if a body by means of its gravity revolves in a circle concentric to the earth, this gravity is the centripetal force of that body.

– Sir Isaac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

The Southeast Corridor was a long tunnel 30 meters across. Like with other examples of Lunar construction, it had been bored and excavated from an existing lava tube long ago, and was not covered from floor to ceiling in buildings, bridges, catwalks, and canopies, all punctuated and interwoven with pipes, ducts, and conduit placed wherever it would fit. The lighting was warm and homely, the air rich is the strong, hearty smell of a dozen aromatic spices, and to Sara’s awe and perplexion, the tunnel walls rang with the sound of hundreds of people singing, accompanied by steady rhythmic clapping and the low drone of a didgeridoo. All of this came together to create an atmosphere of primality and modernity, jubilation and solemnity, ritual and extemporanity, it was a hauntingly beautiful and profoundly… human experience. “That’s amazing,” Sara half-whispered in awe, “What are they doing?”

“Havin’ a sing-songs,” Tahlia said contentedly as their coworkers began to join in, “Ahh, nothing like being back on colony after a hard day’s work, ay?” “I… wouldn’t know,” Sara said, somehow feeling a sense of loss at the richness of culture around her and the… happiness, as if to spite the poverty present here, like in the other Selenite spaces she had seen here on the Moon, “Back home, everyone’s always so miserable and beaten. You’d never have something like this in the Wards.” “Can you say that?” Tahlia asked, surprised, “Well, stay close to me, ay? We’ll get you busted out laughing so we can scare those lows away, unna?”

Tahlia led Sara and, by extension, the rest of the group, left to the tunnel wall, up the stairs two floors, then a right, down past the large air vent with wind chimes hanging off the front, and another right across a bridge until they came to a triangular sign with 10 black circles connected by black lines to look like a shrugging cross, laid against a yellow background. Sara had seen thee signs along their path, and that Tahlia had turned every time they encountered one, as if she were avoiding them. “Catchya inna bit, fullas,” Tahlia called out to the others, “The Earthfulla here needs some schooling.” The others let out a hearty laugh and continued ahead. Tahlia directed Sara’s attention to the shrugging cross sign. “That right there is a marker for the Mara-Tea Dreaming,” she began, “It’s important to my mob and to my colony, which is why it marks our custodial lands. We fullas are the Chladni Community of Sinus Medii – our roots, customs, and culture came from the custodians of the lands of Australia way back in the way backs, but in the centuries since, we’ve welcomed Moonfullas from other backgrounds into our colony.” “And how does Sharqi fit in with all this?” Sara asked. “He’s one of us,” Tahlia replied, “Earthgubbahs put him in welfare during the moonquake of ‘49, so he never got reared up proper – he got sent to an Earthfulla family that were part of the Organisation. He came back all growed up, and in a real blackfulla way, he uses his position to get us Moonfullas jobs so fewer of us have to be on the pension.” “You sound like you admire him,” Sara said. “For a Stolen Gen,” Tahlia replied, “he’s a fulla who’s strong in his culture. Now, let’s get some grub, ay?”

The inside of the restaurant was lively and raucous, full of people talking, laughing, eating, drinking, even singing – and just generally enjoying each other’s company. The air was alive with the smell of hearty food grilled in the open air – the aroma of onions and bell peppers, cooking oils and barbecue sauces, marinated meat and golden grains – Sara had never salivated like this before. The fry cook behind the counter was a giant Aboriginal man with both arms heavily scarred at the elbows, which was where flesh and bone abruptly gave way to the metal and silicone of his cybernetic replacements. His apron had the words, “Black And Proud” printed in large, friendly letters across the chest. “Ay, there you are, sistagirl,” he said jovially, “I was wonderin’ what a fulla’d have to do to get his li’l darlen to come back to her dad’s!” He noticed Sara quietly following her, unsure of how to interact in this sort of setting. “Tahlia,” he asked, “who’s that fulla?” “This fulla’s our new gunna be docker, Sara,” Tahlia replied, “She came up here from America.” “Shair, auntie girl,” he scolded, “Are you ignorant or what? You know gubbahs don’t get us.” “This one ain’t a gubbah,” Tahlia explained, “Nan says she’s my sista from another mister, and I believe her.” “Shame job, Doris,” he sighed, and he gestured to the TV on the far end of the bar, which was airing an interview with the next prime minister of United Earth, a morbidly obese blowhard whose spray tan and toupee were in such appallingly bad taste that they had to be some kind of incomprehensible fashion statement, “Earthfullas are all like that one – they’ve got no respect.” “I’ll flog her myself if she doesn’t,” Tahlia said to Sara’s astonishment. “I’m still here, you know,” Sara commended, “and I’ve picked up enough Moonfulla talk today to know that you don’t like me very much, and I gotta know if we have a problem.” “Ay, little woman now,” the man answered, “don’t be a sookie. I don’t bar fullas unless they’re violent or mission managers. What’ll you have?” “Two of your finest,” Tahlia ordered, “and a flagon each. Don’t skimp on the peppers this time, ay?” “Got it, Tahli,” he affirmed, “Ay, Christo! Fill two gooms for these fullas ‘fore I bust you up!” “Ay, boss!” a younger Aboriginal man shouted in response before filling up two fist-sized glasses with some kind of clear liquor from a tap made from old copper pipes. He slid the two glasses down to Tahlia as the older cyborg turned to his stovetop to grill up their orders. “I’d watch out, if I were you,” Tahlia cautioned as she handed Sara her drink, “This grog’s deadly solid, and it has but one redeeming quality. Mooms up!” Sara joined her in knocking back the sterile, corrosive liquid, fighting the gag reflex its stench evoked as it went down her gullet. Apart from the overpowering alcoholic sting, it had a distinct metallic tang, probably from the pipes and whatever it was stored or distilled in. Even she, a seasoned moonshine drinker, found herself coughing and wheezing after choking it down. “Damn, that’s fucking good!” Sara winced. “It’s also too deadly a machine degreaser,” Tahlia concurred, just as impaired. “Literally,” Sara groaned as she struggled to find her equilibrium, “I might need a new liver after this.” “Dad’s right,” Tahlia said, “You are a sookie.” “Am not!” Sara protested. “Therem therem, sookie,” Tahlia teased, “Auntie Tahli’s gonna love you long time. Two more, Christo!” “Ay, tidda!” Christo called out in response. “Maybe we should go slow on this next round,” Sara suggested, “You have any mixers back there?” “Got some cookin’ oil in the deep fryer!” Chrito replied loudly. “Ay, don’t try to be a blackman now, Christo!” Tahlia yelled, “You’ve got lemon juice and sugar back there, unna? Mix us some hard lemonades, budj!” “Yeah, ay?” Christo answered, “Ay, she’s a big shot now, unna?” “True that, buddah!” half of the people in the room called out in response before going back to their business. “Shame,” Tahlia muttered to herself.

The headquarters office for the Life Support Utility company’s Grimaldi branch was a cylindrical prefabricated structure that jutted out from the water treatment plant like a barnacle, as if it were tacked on as an afterthought. Finchley noted the enormous water main going up through the cavern ceiling to the space elevator. It was the non-descript jugular vein that provided the water, air, and propellant that without which, Grimaldi Station and all aboard would die. He and Nguyen continued across the stark concrete bridge that spanned the trench housing the electrical conduits servicing the power needs of the entire Grimaldi Space Elevator complex, and approached the front gate, which wasn’t really much more than a steel barricade set inside a gap in the chain link fence surrounding the facility. Finchley pressed the button on the intercom. Nothing happened. He pressed it again. Still nothing. Nguyen began restlessly looking around, and noticed that although the door’s security equipment was in place, the bolt holding it locked had been cut. No, burned. Nguyen thought that a laser cutter or acetylene torch had been used here. With one hand and a sideways motion, Nguyen slid the barricade aside with little difficulty, to Finchley’s surprise. “Ewan,” she said as she pulled a bundle of wires out from behind the intercom, which had been cut with electrician’s pliers, “just how, exactly, did you become an inspector?” “My maths were too poor to be an accountant,” Finchley confessed dryly, “and I’m too much of an arsehole to be a project manager.” “So much for the excellence of United Earth’s Civil Service,” Nguyen snarked. She and Finchley drew their sidearms and cautiously approached the office building. They crept up to the front door and flattened their backs against the wall, flanking the doorway. They could hear muffled, indistinct voices on the other side. Nguyen pressed the button to talk on her collar microphone. “Nguyen to Stationhouse,” she whispered urgently, “I’m with an MOI inspector at the LSU Grimaldi Branch HQ. Possible breaking and entering, requesting immediate backup.” She glanced at Finchley, and he returned her gaze. Finchley stepped in front of the door and, after silently counting down from three, he kicked the door open violently and entered, with Nguyen following closely. “Ministry of Inquiry!” Finchley barked at the occupants, “Don’t move!” The six people inside, all wearing LSU uniforms, looked up from apparently mundane tasks with surprise and alarm. Everyone waited in apprehension as detective and technician alike were unsure of how to proceed. Finchley and Nguyen slowly lowered their guns. “Stationhouse, this is Nguyen,” she reported in annoyance, “disregard. Situation is under control.” “Are we under arrest?” a supervisor-type asked obliviously. “No,” Finchley replied with greater annoyance than his partner, “No, you’re not fucking under arrest, you twit!” He holstered his weapon, and Nguyen did the same. “Good,” the supervisor said, “Now, if you don’t have any business here other than harassing utilities technicians, please leave. We are extremely busy!” “Obviously,” Finchley snarked, “You didn’t notice that someone had disabled your security system. We thought someone had broken in!” “You didn’t notice it either,” Nguyen commented offhandedly. “A break-in?” the supervisor asked, “We’ve detected no break-in here.” “How could you?” Nguyen countered, “All the security devices at your front gate have been disabled!” “Besides, you didn’t detect us until after we kicked in the door,” Finchley added. “Fair point,” the supervisor conceded, “and I would send someone out to repair them if I could spare anyone, but I’ve been down to a skeleton crew here ever since all those algal blooms cropped up in Surveyor City. Even with everyone working on that crisis, we’re still working double and triple shifts every day. You can thank your wretched colonial government’s shortsightedness for that!” Nguyen put a hand on her hip. “That’s a hell of an opinion,” she critiqued, “especially for an employee of that government.” “Is it?” the supervisor asked, “I guess I’ve been too busy making sure that half a million people don’t die to notice.” “Right…” Nguyen narked as she rolled her eyes. “That said,” the supervisor said, “I must insist: What business do you have here?” “We’d like to talk to you about the technician you sent to service the CELSS unit at the Governor’s Residence the other day,” Finchley said. The supervisor paused. “Kovac, take over here for a minute,” he ordered, “Officers, step into my office, if you please. I think we may want to discuss this in private.” They followed him to a plexiglass cubicle with no door. The supervisor plopped down in the swivel chair behind the desk and turned to face the detectives. “You wanted to know about a technician that LSU sent to the Governor’s Residence?” he asked as he tapped his desk with his finger, calling up a holographic display with graphs, charts, spreadsheets, and tables, all hovering like cyan specters, “Ah, here it is. Konstantin Dibra, Journeyman Utility Technician Grade 1, assigned to perform the monthly diagnostic test on the Governor’s Residence CELSS unit for January 2293 on 22930112.” He poked the work order for more information. “Huh,” he said in subdued curiosity, “It says here that he accepted the job and completed it within the time allotted, but never reported in for his next job. In fact, he didn’t show up for work today.” “Is that unusual for him?” Finchley asked. “Most definitely,” the supervisor replied, “Konstantin started here as a Grade 4 Apprentice, and in the 12 years he’s worked for the company, the only time he’s ever taken off from work was during the labor strike of ‘87. The man’s a workaholic – he’s always taking extra shifts whenever they become available – even the few times he’s been sick or injured, he insisted on working his full shift.” “The ‘87 labor strike?” Nguyen asked, “So he’s political?” “I don’t have that information,” the supervisor said, “but everyone in LSU was there protesting the pay cuts and having to pre-fund 100 years of retirement pension payments, thanks to your wretched colonial government again. I don’t think he had the time to get involved in politics, he was just standing up for his livelihood like the rest of us.” “But he’s still a trade unionist,” Nguyen pressed, “Doesn’t that imply a political affiliation?” “Not necessarily,” the supervisor corrected, “Everyone – and I mean everyone, down to the secretaries – who work at LSU is a card-carrying member of the LLT. They don’t have to agree with the League’s politics, they don’t even have to like it, period, as long as they pay their dues, they get to work here and receive all the benefits that League membership confers. Konstantin’s paid his dues on time every quarter for 12 years now.” “Could we get a copy of his employee jacket?” Finchley asked. “Certainly,” the supervisor answered, and summoned the technician’s dossier, which he sent to the detectives’ handsets with a flick of his wrist, “Anything else I can do for you?” “No,” Finchley concluded, “but we’ll contact you if we have further questions.” “Well then,” the supervisor dismissed, “good day.” He gestured for them to leave. As they exited the building, Nguyen spoke up. “So, where to now?” she asked. “I’ll question Ms. Yousafzai again,” Finchley stated, “I want you to go follow up on the Dibra lead. Go to his home, try to locate him.” “Understood,” Nguyen responded.

A savory, meaty, bready aroma heralded the arrival of Sara’s salivatory entreé – a breaded steak, buttered mashed potatoes and gravy, collared greens, and a pair of southern-style biscuits. Never before in Sara’s life had she seen such a feast, let alone had one prepared for her. She found herself unsure of how to attack it. Tahlia saw the apprehension in Sara’s eyes. “Somethin’ wrong with it, darlen?” she asked. “No, it looks great,” Sara said, “I just can’t believe that all this is for me.” “Well, eat hearty,” Tahlia advised, “A docker’s gotta keep up her strength, unna?” She took her own advice and began cutting into her steak. Sara stuck her fork into her cutlet and carved off a lice. She put it in her mouth and began to chew, and the flavor – the tang of the salt, the cream of the buttermilk, the sinus-clearing power of the peppers and the garlic – it was more than merely delicious. It was painfully, profoundly beautiful. As she swallowed, she could feel her eyes moisten. The moisture turned to wetness, the wetness to tears that rolled slowly down her cheek in the 1/6th gravity. Before she knew it, she was sobbing uncontrollably, grieving for… something. The girl she was never allowed to be; who could have eaten like this sooner, perhaps. Her grief turned to regret and self-hatred. She wished she had never tasted such a morsel – that way, she wouldn’t have ever known that such a delightful thing could possibly exist, or that she could ever sample such a glorious delicacy. She felt as if she had taken her knife and fork and cut out a piece of herself instead. It hurt her more deeply than any wound she had ever suffered in her life, and it was agonizing. Good things didn’t happen to her. She couldn’t accept that they might. Tahlia was surprised at Sara’s reaction. Her dad’s cooking was good, but she had never heard of anyone being reduced to tears after only one bite. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Sara continued to bawl inconsolably. Tahlia didn’t know what to do – she had never seen a grown woman have a sook like this before. Her tears weren’t born of pain or petulance, or of grief or gladlessness, or of heartbreak or hopelessness. Hers were complex, conflicting tears which tugged at the tapestry of her soul in every direction until the threads frayed and it began to come apart at the seams. Tahlia couldn’t comfort Sara because Sara didn’t know what she was feeling herself. “Mad deadly, ay?” Tahlia asked Sara tenderly, “Gorn den, the second bite’s better’n the first.” Sara wiped her tears away on her sleeve, almost stabbing Tahlia with her steak knife on accident. She regained just enough composure to take Tahlia’s advice and eat another bite of her impossibly heavenly steak dinner. “Why now?” Sara wept wretchedly, “Why not sooner?” “My dad cooked it as quickly as possible,” Tahlia replied, trying to raise Sara’s spirits by comically missing the point. “Not that,” Sara continued, “I just… never ate like this before. Nothin’ like this where I’m from. I’m not sure I deserve this.” “Can you say that, auntie girl?” Tahlia asked, “You deserve to eat hearty and be happy like any fulla. Now eat up. Auntie Tahli’s gonna treat you right, ay?” Sara kept eating, still weeping as she did so. Tahlia turned to face her dad behind the counter. “Ay, dad!” she called out, “Is he ignorant or what?” “Who?” he asked back. “That gubbah,” Tahlia clarified as she nodded in the direction of the screen, which was still showing the interview with the overflowingly gelatinous Prime-Minister-In-Waiting from the United States, George Paramount, “He’s got so much shit packed in his head, it’s spillin’ out his mouth!” “Ayy, no respect that one,” Dad replied, “They had him on earlier, busted for behaviour his nan shoulda flogged him for when he was a little fulla. He’s got no shame.” “What sort of behaviour, dad?” “Oh, he was yarnin’ up big time about grabbin’ mootchas and other shameful shit on an Earth chat show last month,” Dad explained, “and get this – the host let rip on him for that talk, and the dish licker called her a liar, even when she showed him the fucking video of him sayin’ his exact words! Then he stood over her and lapped her up over mobbin’ him up with slander and fake news!” “You’re gammon!” Tahlia dismissed, “Good go, dad, but not even!” “I’m bein’ straight out, baby girl, I’d swear he was grog sick there,” Dad contested, “The loon’s an even bigger sookie than this one, here! If that’s the flashest the Earthgubbahs can pick, we Moonfullas might be best off lettin’ rip on those mission managers in the Colonial Government and stand up for our land rights.” “Nahhh, Earthgubbas have got all of the guns and none of the respect,” Tahlia countered, “If we rise up against them, they’ll turn the city’s tunnels into one great massacre site, and then we’ll all be in for some sorry business, unna?” “Shair, auntie girl,” Dad articulated, “There hasn’t been a massacre on Luna in a hundred years. Gubbahs haven’t got the boobles for more than the occasional bust up.” “Dad,” Tahlia protested, “Mum and Nan were killed in the last ‘bust up.’ I don’t want any more in my mob to die.” “Is it better for us Moonfullas to die slowly as the Earthfullas replace us?” Christo chimed in. “Fuck off, Christo!” Tahlia snapped, “I swear to God I”m gonna bust you if you don’t!” “Then let’s get busted!” Sara shouted, “Christo, two more!” “That’s ‘hammered,’ sista from another mista,” Tahlia corrected.

Amsha was rudely awakened by percussive, metallic banging on the door of her cell before the bolt slid open and the door swung open, blinding her bleary eyes with the light from the corridor outside. A short, stocky, night-black silhouette blotted out the light and set foot in the room. Amsha quickly wrapped herself up in her bedsheets to preserve her modesty, but she wasn’t quite able to cover one of her ankles in the confusion. “Tell me about the LSU technician,” Fichley asked without breaking stride, “Every detail, you can remember, every impression you had of him, everything!” “What is going on!?” Amsha asked in a shocked manner. “The technician!” Finchley repeated, “Tell me now!” Amsha had to take a moment to organize her thoughts and recall what had been a routine and thoroughly forgettable encounter. “The technician was courteous, efficient, professional,” she replied nervously, “The job was completed within half an hour – at the time, I thought it was satisfactory – there weren’t any problems with security, no apparent difficulties or delays–” “Describe the technician,” Finchley ordered, “How tall was he? Was he an Earther? Spaceborn? Selenite? Did he have any identifying features, like scars, birthmarks, prostheses, tattoos?” “Th-the technician was 170-odd centimeters tall,” Amsha anxiously answered, “I think she might have been an Earther, but it was hard to tell with her baggy coverall–” “Wait a minute,” Finchley interrupted, “‘She?’” “Yes,” Amsha affirmed. “The LSU technician was a woman?” “Surely that’s not unusual.” “It isn’t,” Finchley interrogated, “but in this case, it’s impossible. The technician that LSU dispatched to the Residence was male.” “What?” was all that Amsha could manage in her astonishment. “The technician, Konstantin Dirba, was a man,” Finchley clarified. “Your information must be wrong,” Amsha denied, “The technician who came to the Residence was definitely female.” “Ms. Yousafzai,” Finchley said sternly, “why are you lying to me?” “I’m not,” Amsha countered, “I was there. I spoke with her for five minutes. I am certain that she was as much a woman as I am now.” “Indulging in this ridiculous fiction will not derail this investigation,” Finchley accused, “Who is it that you are protecting?” “I’m not protecting anyone!” Amsha protested, “With merciful God a witness, the technician was a woman! Why won’t you believe me!?” “Because your story is unbelievable,” Finchley conjectured, “Now, let’s try this one: Your sister died from anatoxin poisoning due to contamination in the water supply, which the terrorist organisation he belonged to attributed to deliberate incompetence on the part of the Earth-appointed colonial government. Grief-stricken and grasping for meaning, you joined up with the Selenite Liberation Front to carry on your sister’s work.” “This can’t be happening,” Amsha whispered with a quivering voice, “I’ve never committed a crime in my life, I’ve never harmed anyone–” “After being radicalised by Selenite nationalists, the Front exploited your exemplary criminal record to infiltrate you – a sleeper agent – into the Governor’s staff,” Finchley raised his voice as he speculated, “When the time was right, all you needed to do was look the other way while a Front operative sabotaged the Residence’s life support system, and avoid drinking the water while you stood by and watched the maladroit magistrate got his just desserts – death by anatoxin poisoning, just like your sister and thousands of other Selenites.” “–How many times must I tell you that I’m innocent?” Amsha continued, “Why do you keep accusing me of a crime I didn’t commit?” “Of course, your role in this sinister plot could be easily dismissed a negligent, for want of conclusive evidence or culpability,” Finchley pressed, “but under section 132 of the United Earth Code of Laws, lying to an Inspector of the Homeworld is considered perjury, which is a felony offence punishable by up to 120 months’ hard labour, a fine of more than 20,000 Global Exchange Option credits but not exceeding 25 million, or both.” Amha was aghast. 20,000 GEOs was more than she made in a month, and the Lunar Civil Service paid her for her work in the Residence much better than most jobs her fellow Selenites languished in. She wasn’t even sure that she had 20,000 GEOs saved. A perjury conviction would ruin her, but she knew that she was not wrong about the sex of the LSU technician. She had no choice but to persist. “I’m not lying, Inspector,” she answered with renewed determination, “the technician was a woman, and I had no knowledge of a plot to sabotage the Residence or assassinate the Governor-General. You can check the security logs, they’ll prove that I’m telling the truth!” “We’ll see,” Finchley said coldly, “Get dressed. We’ll start again in five minutes.”

It wasn’t until she knocked back her fifth “flagon” of “grog” that Sara loosened up, stopped crying, and felt that warm, contented feeling she remembered from the hard-drinking days of her squandered youth. The booze was her happy chemical. “Auntie Tahli?” she drawled at her drinking companion, “I think I’ve found the grog’s one redeeming quality.” “Yeah, deadly ay?” Tahlia slurred back, “I’ll admit, you smashed those flagons like a killer, sistagirl!” “I can thank my dad for that,” Sara uttered, “It’s because of that motherfucker that I can hold my booze like I do.” “Was he a drunkard?” “Yeah,” Sara miserated, “Hardly had any money for food, but somehow he could always afford a bottle of moonshine for himself. Whenever he got drunk, he’d hit me ‘til I was blue all over. He wouldn’t stop until he passed out, and I learned to cherish those moments when he was too drunk to hurt me. I’d bandage myself up as best I could, get a couple hours of quality shuteye, and pretend that he hit me because he loved me.” “Aww, poor darlen,” Tahlia commiserated, “How’dja get out?” “I was 8 when I got the idea that it was the booze that made him violent,” Sara yarned, “So one day, after I got thrashed so hard that three of my teeth broke, li’l Sara waited until he passed out, then stole his booze and ran away to throw it out somewhere.” Sara gulped nothing before continuing. “Of course,” she confessed, “it wasn’t until I was halfway to the river that I realized that my dad would hit me for takin’ his rocket fuel away, so I decided not to go back home, which turned out to be the best decision I ever made. I knew that alcohol made for a good disinfectant, and because I was still bleeding from my dad’s ham-fisted dental work, I took a swig from the bottle, endured the burning and the pain, and after a few more self-medication sessions throughout the day, I developed a taste for white liquor.” “Your mob’s river people?” Tahlia asked, apparently only catching the middle part of Sara’s tale. “Yeah, that’s us,” Sara sighed drunkenly, “Minneapolis – the Megacity of Lakes. Straddling both banks of the mighty Missississ… Mithithipp… some big-ass river south of Canada, anyway, like a hooker fucking a storm drain.” “That’s a big fucking hooker,” Tahlia mused disjointedly. “Chonky,” Sara concurred. They sat there for about a minute, basking in the sophisticated poetry they had just crafted collaboratively. They expected to win the 2293 Rhysling Award for their creative genius. “Mississippi!” Sara shouted out victoriously, “That’s the name of that goddamn river! Fuck, I’m wasted!” “Glad we got that sorted,” Tahlia declared as she stood up, “I’m gonna go ring my flannel.” She lurched over to a door marked, “Djillawa,” and stumbled inside. The George Paramount interview was interrupted by a news flash. “Breaking news at this hour,” an impossibly comely news anchor announced, “Farouk Al-Amir Najjar, Governor-General of the Lunar Colonies, was found dead earlier today in the Governor’s Residence from anatoxin poisoning.” “Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving gubbah,” Dad grumbled as he wiped the counter down with a microfiber towel. “What’d he do?” Sara asked with inebriated curiosity. “That dish-licking mission manager’s been bleeding us Moonfullas dry for over 30 years,” he replied bitterly, “His ‘work programmes’ created thousands of jobs for Earthfullas while millions of Moonfullas are starving in the tunnels. His government have prioritised tourism over life support, pouring money into expensive hotels overlooking the Apollo sites while children suffocate in their homes and algae blooms kill their parents. He and his predecessors have been perpetrating a genocide so they can replace us with Earthfullas who will do as they are told, and every time we hoola to be heard, they make us drink contaminated water, breathe unrecycled air, and starve on crumbs thrown to us by ignorant visitors who care nothing for the hardship we Moonfullas suffer at their own hands. That is what that Douligha fucker has done!” Sara paused for a moment. “I’m one of those ignorant Earthfullas sent to replace you, you know,” she countered. “Tahlia says you’re a goodfulla,” Dad replied, “That’s good enough for me.” Sara thought about that for a moment, and she decided that she liked that.

“How did you get a job on the docks, anyway?” Dad asked, “The LLT aren’t in the business of giving jobs to Earthfullas.” “Sharqi pulled some strings,” Sara answered. Dad’s expression was one of understanding. “A jambi job, unna?” he wondered, “That fulla’s a cheeky one, ay? Must be because he’s a Stolen Gen.” “Why does a crime boss have so much pull over the Moonfulla community?” Sara asked. “He’s got no more ‘pull’ than anyone else, at the end of the day, we’re all just blackfullas anyway,” Dad answered, “but there’s no denying he’s a respected person in our mob – he’s done more for the Moonfulla community in five years than the Earthgubbahs have in fifty. The Organisation give the LLT the moolah and the muscle they need to stand up to the ration dolers in the colonial government. LLT protect legit jobs for Moonfullas, while the Organisation look out for our little buddahs and sistas who have to act shameful to keep from cadjing in the tunnels. Since Sharqi took over the Organisation, fewer blackfullas have gone missing, especially the sistas.” “So they throw you a bone every now and then, and in return criminals get your undying loyalty?” Sara asked, “Sounds like a bad deal for you fullas.” “Don’t be a mission manager like those fullas,” Dad scolded, “We’d rather not be associated with criminals, but the Earthgubbahs have left us no choice. When the rules are made to keep you under some other fulla’s heel, no one should be surprised when you don’t follow the rules.” “Naw, I get it,” Sara replied, “I really do. Where I’m from, following the rules means a race between overwork and starvation, and see which kills you first.” “For more, we go live to our correspondent on the scene at the Governor’s Residence, Guiseppina Conti,” the anchor reported, “Peppi?” “Grazie,” an Italian reporter said as the screen switched over to her, “The Governor died while eating dinner, when he was served drinking water contaminated with anatoxin-a, a neurotoxin created by the bacteria that live inside toxic algae blooms. He was dead within minutes.” “Does the investigation have any suspects?” the anchor asked. “They have the murderer in custody,” Peppi answered, “and there’s a manhunt for a co-conspirator going on as well. While official sources refuse to comment on whether this was an isolated incident, reliable sources close to the investigation have indicated that the Selenite Liberation Front, a terrorist group operating in the Lunar colonies, may have ordered the Governor’s assassination–” The bar erupted in an uproar. “Ay, look out!” Christo shouted, “There’s gonna be blood on the walls now, buddahs! True!?” “True that, buddah!” the patrons of the bar shouted in response. “Listen up now, young ones!” Dad roared, “Now I don’t wanna hear no more talk of risin’ up or of revolutions or of havin’ a crack at the Earthgubbah, at least not when they might be within cooee, unna!?” The uproar died down abruptly. “That’s him,” Dad said with satisfaction, “Now, they’re just trying to flush us out, ay? They’re out to irritate us – pull our beards, flick our faces – to make us fight on their terms. Now, when the time is right, we and the other communities will sing out, and we will be heard. Until then, we just oughta take a deep breath and cool our jets. No sense in getting violent when it would do no good, ay?” “True that, Elder,” the bar murmured. Dad turned the screen off. “Now clear off,” he said, “Go home and get some rack time. Another hard yakka await you in the morning.” The bar began to empty out, and Dad clapped a synthetic hand onto Sara’s shoulder. “You too, sistagirl,” he said, “Bar’s closed.” Sara got up and stumbled out the door.

“Ay, Sara!” Tahlia called out from behind her, “Where you goin’?” “Home,” Sara muttered distantly, “wherever that is…” She continued to follow Sara for a bit, until Sara stopped at the mouth of the tunnel. “Ay, I’m such a boofhead!” Tahlia declared, “Your salary won’t come ‘til sundown, so you’ve got nowhere to go! Cooee, you can camp with me ‘til then, unna?” “Only one day?” Sara asked despondently, “Where will I stay tomorrow?” “Nah, auntie girl,” Tahlia said reassuringly, “sundown’s not for 18 days. Sunup-to-sunup here on Luna is about a month long.” “All right,” Sara consented, “let’s go. Lead the way, Auntie Tahli.” Tahlia turned Sara around and led her back into the tunnel.

Finchley exited the interrogation room and answered his handset. “Inspector Finchley,” he said. “Ewan, it’s Anh Lihn,” Nguyen replied, “I’ve given Dibra’s hole a once-over. He hasn’t been home since Wednesday morning, when he left for his first LSU job.” “He’s been gone for nearly two days?” Finchley asked, “Did any of his jobs require that he stay overnight elsewhere?” “No, they were all within two hours’ travel on the metro,” Nguyen answered, “The last job he accepted before he disappeared was the routine diagnostic of the Residence’s life support system. How’s the interrogation proceeding?” “It’s been three hours, and she still professes her innocence,” Finchley answered, “She insists that the LSU technician she met was a woman.” “A we saw, the security footage was inconclusive,” Nguyen acknowledged, “but I came across an entry in his diary which describes a recent romance with a woman. Apparently his work schedule required that they postpone a romantic getaway several times, and they were about to finally go when Dibra was called away to work on his last job.” “Did he call for a replacement?” Finchley asked, “Did LSU send someone in his place?” “No,” Nguyen replied, “he accepted the job, and later submitted a completion report. As far as we know, that’s the last anyone heard from him.” “Try retracing his steps,” Finchley ordered, “I’ll follow up on the girlfriend.” “Got it,” Nguyen affirmed, and hung up. “Have Ms. Yousafzai moved back to her cell,” Finchley ordered one of the guards, “we’ll hold her for further questioning.”

“...Reliable sources close to the investigation have indicated that the Selenite Liberation Front, a terrorist group operating in the Lunar colonies, may have ordered the Governor’s assassination…” the screen in Sharqi’s champagne room played. The room was dark, and Sharqi was brooding. Esteri and Rosita had been showering him with affection, and he them, until his consigliere told him to watch the news. Now, they were torn between trying to cheer him up and their own terrible awe at what their ears were telling them. Sharqi tapped the tabletop exactly thus, calling his consigliere.

“Forbes,” he said between gritted teeth, “get me Rong She immediately. I want to know what that serpentine fucker and her psychopathic sister were thinking when they had the Governor murdered.”

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theoriginalkidwithapen · 4 years

Text

Principia – De Motu Corporum X

CW: foul language, colonialism, references to the Troubles and the Vietnam War

“Every body, that by a radius drawn to the centre of another body, how soever moved, describes areas about that centre proportional to the times, is urged by a force compounded out of the centripetal force tending to that other body, and of all the accelerative force by which that other body is impelled.”

– Sir Isaac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

Jon and Misty finished recounting the details of the incident at Fasal. Although they did their best to hide their emotions behind stoic facades, the human officers of the board could not conceal them from Jon’s non-verbal signals analysis suite – only the android’s were secreted behind that bronze mask of hers. About half of them, including the Kerepunu colonel, were satisfied with his report and his command decisions, the others, including the Lithuanian, questioned his handling of the situation. A nearly even split. Jon was nothing if not consistent. “Commander,” the Lithuanian asked sternly, “how would you characterize this Earther woman, Reynolds?” “Strong, tough, determined, disaffected,” Jon replied, “she’d probably be astute with the right upgrades and remedial education. Chief Olayinka thinks she has a lot of emotional baggage that needs to be unpacked, but her low self-esteem and confidence most likely result from a lifetime living in a society that places no value on her life. She should make a valuable addition to this commander’s team.” “But you couldn’t have known of her existence beforehand,” the Lithuanian pressed, “It sounds to me like you’re just trying to justify a poor command decision after the fact. “Besides,” he continued, “if you’re not careful with your recruitment choices, your unit could acquire a reputation as a haven for salvage jobs.” Jon and Misty bristled at his inflammatory remark, but said nothing.

“I assume that you acquired something of value to make up for this egregious error of yours?” the Lithuanian concluded with stoic mockery. Jon slapped an MSD labeled “Insurance” onto the table and slid it over to the android. “Would this do?” he asked with feigned cluelessness. The android inspected the MSD. “What is this?” she asked. “Intelligence acquired through sources and methods indicating that someone is secretly experimenting with advanced technology,” Jon replied, “Someone who has somehow escaped O7’s notice.” “Is that new threat attempting to copy our technology?” the android inquired. “Not unless O5 has constructed a working hyperspace propulsion drive,” Jon clarified, “I thought they were still a few decades away from perfecting the theory behind hyperspace translation.” The rest of the board stared at him in disbelief. “That’s impossible,” another member of the board, an Ojibwe-descended major exclaimed, “O5 canceled that project last year. Their Estimate Of The Situation concluded that higher dimensions could only exist as mathematical curiosities, and that the science had no real-world applications.” “Indeed,” the android continued, “it would take nothing less than successfully formulating a complete grand unified theory to realize it. What you’re saying is that an agent unknown has developed superior science to our own and is experimenting with applications of that science for purposes unknown.” “That is correct, General,” Jon said, “And if this evidence is substantiated, it would represent an existential threat to Mars.” “You’ll forgive me if I don’t find your explanation compelling,” the Lithuanian countered, “Hyperspace travel? Grand unified theory? This is science fiction, not intelligence!” “Agreed,” a captain of Cubeo ancestry concurred, “It’s far more likely that this is part of a new disinformation campaign of Earth’s to tie up and expose Martian Intelligence assets. I recommend that this ‘evidence’ be disregarded as irrelevant.” “The evidence will go to O7 for analysis,” the android declared, “For now, Commander Orvar, your team is on standby until further notice. Do nothing to draw attention to yourselves and remain here on Luna. “Of course,” she appended, “you should maintain situational monitoring, in case something interesting happens your way. Dismissed.” Jon and Misty stood up, saluted the board, and marched out of the room. “For being such an uncomplicated man,” Misty said to Jon after they were out of earshot, “you never fail to surprise me, anata.” “Maybe I’m a little more complicated than you give me credit for,” Jon joked. “I doubt it,” Misty said with a smile.

Finchley and Nguyen returned to the Governor’s Residence to continue their investigation into the Governor’s murder. The entire area was, if anything, even more heavily secured than it was when they left. Twice the number of MCVs, double the garrison, sharpshooter teams on the rooftops and upper floor, and security scanners at every checkpoint – they were taking every precaution against another assassin striking at the Interim Governor-General of the Lunar Colonies. Not that any of these measures would have prevented the last murder, of course, but this security theater was deemed necessary as a show of force, to convince the Selenites that the colonial government wasn’t weakened by the attack. Poor bloody Loonies, Finchley thought to himself as a Selenite butler was pulled aside by security for questioning. Nguyen could see the pity on Finchley’s face. “What is it, Ewan?” she asked him. “I worry about what the response will be,�� Finchley mulled, “I know how the Ministry of Public Safety operate – whether through the force of their Department of Harmony, or the persuasion of their Department of Veracity, they will respond. Either way, it will end poorly for the Selenites.” “If they’d stop complaining like spoiled children, we wouldn’t have to put them back in their place so often,” Nguyen opined, “They should be fucking grateful for everything Earth does for them. Between the docks, the Peacekeeper bases, the factories, and the tourism, they’ve got jobs, they’ve got an economy, and they’ve got protection from the Outers and Martians. We provide them with the supplies and equipment they need to keep their domes running. They should be parading in the streets for all we do for them, instead they’re bitching about problems of their own making like the whiny little shits they are.” “Strange that you’d come to Amsha’s defence so passionately when you hold her people in such little regard,” Finchley noted. “Just because I didn’t like how that asshole was beating the shit out of that Loonie,” Nguyen retorted, “it doesn’t mean I think she’s innocent. Killing the Governor with anatoxin was a political statement, make no mistake.” “The history of my people is full of events similar to what’s happened here on the Moon,” Finchley began as they finally approached the shed which contained the Residence’s life support machinery. The shed stylized as a horse stable on the outside – its 19th century design belying its 23rd century contents. “The English colonised my home country of Ireland some 600 years ago,” Finchley continued as he led Nguyen to the clean water connection to the station’s plumbing, “and what followed was nearly 400 years of bloodshed and misery at the hands of English conquerors. Here we are – Clean Water Intake Junction Monitoring Panel. Computer, run diagnostic programme and report levels of cyanobacteria for the last 36 hours.” The computer began forming its diagnostic report. “What’s your point, Ewan?” Nguyen asked impatiently. “That they probably have legitimate grievances against the colonial government,” Finchley answered, “You’ve seen how they live here – whole sectors of the city are full of jobless Selenites while most of the work goes to resettled Earthers due to the policies of the Ministries of Labour and Extraterrestrial Affairs. It’s no wonder that some of them have turned to crime or political violence.” “Diagnostic report complete,” the vaguely feminine synthetic voice of the computer announced, “No cyanobacterial contamination found. No trace amount of anatoxin-a or anatoxin-s found. Clean Water Intake Junction operating at nominal efficacy.” “No malfunctions here,” Nguyen reported, “Economic issues are no excuse to cause trouble.” “Say someone whose nation responded to famine caused by decades of French, Japanese, and American colonisation with armed communist revolution,” Finchley observed facetiously, “We’ll check the water reclamation unit next.” “Computer,” Nguyen ordered at the next station, “run diagnostic program and report level of cyanobacteria for the last 36 hours. I don’t see the connection. My ancestors fought the resistance war against American imperialism to bring about the reunification of the Vietnamese people, not to complain about our living conditions.” “But your ancestors still chose violence to end the rule by colonist fiat,” Finchley remarked, “so isn’t there a hint of hypocrisy in your position, now that you’re on the other side?” “Diagnostic report complete,” the computer reported, “No cyanobacteria contamination found. Trace amounts of anatoxin-a detected in Main Filtration Manifold B on 22930112 from 08:17:47 to 14:39:11. Peak concentration: 481 parts per million. Be advised that the contaminant sensors in this unit have been reporting false positives since 22930112, 08:17:47. Additional maintenance servicing required.” “I think I’ve got something,” Nguyen called out, “No cyanobacteria, but for 6 hours and 12 minutes, the unit recorded lethal levels of anatoxin in one of the filtration manifolds.” “Which manifold?” Finchley asked. “Main Manifold B,” Nguyen replied, “Computer, display schematic of Main Filtration Manifold B and all connected systems.” The systems monitor displayed the appropriate diagram. Nguyen traced her finger back up the flow path to the algaculture panels of the air recycling system. “Computer,” she dictated, “run diagnostic program on Air Recycling System Algaculture Panels. Report cyanobacteria level for the last 36 hours.” Nguyen turned to face Finchley. “I don’t think there’s any hypocrisy,” she continued, “the Lunar colonies are only a couple centuries old – they haven’t been around long enough to have a national identity. Vietnamese civilization has endured for more than 5,000 years. Even the ICP predated the first Lunar landings by nearly 30 years. Most Loonies are only a generation or two removed from malcontents who felt that life on Earth wasn’t good enough for them.” “Diagnostic report complete,” the computer stated, “No cyanobacterial contamination found. No trace of anatoxin-a or anatoxin-s found. Air Recycling System Algaculture Panels operating at nominal efficacy.” “That can’t be right,” Finchley exclaimed, “Computer, confirm diagnostic report.” “Diagnostic report confirmed,” the computer replied, “No contamination or malfunctions found in the past 36 hours.” “I don’t understand how this is possible,” Nguyen puzzled, “Why would the computer show anatoxin in the filtration manifold, but not in the algaculture panels it drains from?” “Maybe it is a sensor malfunction,” Finchley said, “The computer did mention that as a possibility.” “I’d think that you’d want to do something you can to prove your pet Loonie innocent,” Nguyen remarked snidely, “Wouldn’t a sensor malfunction suggest that she was the one who poisoned the Governor?” “Good point,” Finchley agreed, “I guess there’s nothing for it but to open that panel up and take a look ourselves.” “I want to try something first,” Nguyen said, “Computer, open maintenance log. When was the last time the access panel to Main Filtration Manifold B opened?” “22921010, 07:51:18,” the computer replied. “Three months ago,” Finchley deduced, “What about the algae panels themselves? Computer, when was the last time the access panel to the Air Recycling System Algaculture Panels opened?” “22930112, 08:12:02,” the computer reported. “Five minutes before the manifold recorded its first anatoxin levels,” Finchley commented, “How’s that for timing?” “Sounds pretty suspicious to me,” Nguyen concurred, “Let’s get that panel off.” Together, the two pressed the buttons in the top two corners and lifted the now-unfastened panel away from its housing. Inside the compartment was a rack of 12 panels, each composed of winding and branching transparent piping filled with a sickly green froth. Each rack had two of these raceways, with a matrix of artificial light diodes sandwiched between them. The churning jade effervescence was what kept the air from growing toxic – an aerated algae concoction which used photosynthesis to turn the carbon dioxide humans exhaled into the oxygen they needed to avoid suffocation. It was not a pretty sight, but few of those things which make life possible are. Nguyen pulled out one of the panels, revealing the santorum within the pipes to be a turquoise color, rather than the lichen green of the other panels. The corner of her mouth twitched in irritation. “This had better not be what I think it is,” Nguyen grumbled, “Computer, identify cause of crop discoloration in panel 4.” “No discoloration detected,” the computer reported, “Algaculture Panel 4 is functioning within established parameters.” “How is that possible!?” Nguyen exclaimed as she banged her palm on the rack’s housing in frustration, “I’m telling you, the crop is the wrong color!” “Please restate as a question,” the computer requested. “Oh, fuck this piece of scrap!” Nguyen roared as she gave the housing a good, hard kick before storming out of the room. Finchley pulled out his handset and placed a call. “Yes, it’s Finchley,” he said, “I need a forensics team at the Governor’s Residence, life support building. We’ve discovered a possible malfunction in the life support system that may be connected to the murder of Governor Najjar.”

Despite being the first day on a new job, especially one that involved a lot of heavy lifting and on-the-job training, Sara felt it was a good day. She had worked just hard enough to feel the satisfaction of a day’s manual labor, and she was surprised to discover that she liked it. Admittedly, she found it a little difficult to fit in with the others – all of them were Selenites, and most of them were Aboriginals like Tahlia. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to assimilate, but rather that they had such a different way of doing things – their own social cues, nicknames, their penchant for laughing and making jokes, their own way of speaking that she could barely follow – it was a lot for her to adjust to all at once. “Gee, I’m dry,” a Cockney woman about Sara’s age who she learned was called Rosie Leah sighed as she removed her helmet, “Who wants to go get charged up after shift?” “Gorn den, auntie girl,” an Aboriginal man called Charles goaded playfully, “You get deadly cheeky every time you have a sip. Shame job ay, blackfullas?” “Ay, tidda,” another Aboriginal man about Sara’s age called out, “I’m tonguing for a drink myself. Gotta lend, captain?” “Nah, on me off week,” Rosie answered as she peeled her pressure suit off, revealing functional underwear beneath, “‘Sides, you’re such a cadja, Dennis!” Charles stripped his suit off, and wearing nothing but his long briefs placed it in the laundry hamper. “You’re always on your off week, Rosie,” he chastised her jocularly, “It’s like you sign a form every fortnight and you’re just gammon here. Rosie, you make me weak!” “Ay, don’t try to be a blackman now,” Rosie said as she pulled on her coverall, “You wanna get slapped up, buddah boy?” “Come at me, sista!” Charles challenged, and Rosie pounced on him. Sara watched them playfully grapple distantly, their physical separation from her dwarfed by the social gap between them. She wished that she could join in in their fun and camaraderie, but she didn’t know how, or if she’d even be welcome among them. Tahlia clapped her hand on Sara’s back and sat down next to her on the bench. “Minding some sorry business, darlen?” she asked, “You’re a deadly serious one, ay?” “No… auntie?” Sara replied, subdued and trying out some of the Aboriginal slang she heard used on the docks all day, “I… I’m not sure how I’m supposed to fit in here. I mean, today’s been great… deadly? great, and this place is better than anywhere I’ve ever worked at, but you… fullas… do things so differently around here, and I don’t know how, or if, I can be a part of that.” “Ayy, darlen,” Tahlia said sympathetically, “you’re no fringe dweller, no need to get low. Tell you what – my mob here’s gonna knock about at a hospitality district in the southeast corridor. You wanna party up with us, auntie girl?” “I don’t have any cash,” Sara said. “You can fix me up later,” Tahlia dismissed, “Let’s get you outta that suit and cleaned up, then we’ll hump it to my unc’s – he’s got a steakhouse down that way. The meat may be fake, but he makes a deadly chicken fried steak dinner.” Tahlia stood up, then climbed atop the bench so that she stood above the rest. “Listen up now, fullas!” she called out, “Me and this one are gonna party up at my uncle’s. You lot comin’ or what?” “Ay, look out, big shot now,” Dennis retorted loudly, “Tahlia’s flashin’ black for the Earthfulla girl, true?” “You got jelly beans there, baby cousin,” Tahlia taunted, “at the end of the day, we’re all just blackfullas, true?” “True that!” the rest of the room shouted. Tahlia brushed her hands together in a specific way, and the others began to file out of the locker room as they finished dressing. Sara stopped for a moment after putting her suit into the hamper. “Tahlia,” she said, “‘deadly’ means ‘good,’ right?” Tahlia smiled. “We’ll make a goodfulla outta you yet, sistagirl,” she asserted.

Finchley had lost count of the number of cups of coffee he’d poured while waiting for the forensics team to finish going over the Residence’s life support system with a fine-toothed comb. However many he had had, it was enough to make the cheap shit LSS normally stocked in their offices almost palatable.

Of course, the stuff would probably give him cancer in 10 years, but Finchley never had any illusions that he would live a long, full life. In fact, he always imagined that he’d wind up face down in some dark tunnel somewhere, far from home.

The forensics officer exited the life support building, their LSS windbreaker more of an affectation than a practical uniform in an environment without weather of any kind. Even now, centuries after widespread acceptance of genders other than male and female, Finchley still reflexively thought of them as “she,” but caught himself before that line of thought continued.

The officer could be described as mostly gynetypical – they had a feminine pointed jaw and narrow shoulders, and their flat bust and square hips lent them a boyish figure; they almost looked too young to be in that uniform.

“LSS forensics specialist Tomomi Maeda, they/them/theirs,” the officer reported, “Here’s the report you asked for.”

Finchley took the tablet they offered as Officer Maeda continued. “In summary,” they said, “Panel 4 of the air recycling system has a severe case of cyanobacteria contamination, species Planktothrix Agardhii, caused by an uncontrolled algal bloom. Judging by the unusual spread of the contamination as well as its concentration, it would appear that it was placed there deliberately through the secondary pressure release valve.”

“Why didn’t the sensors pick it up?” Finchley asked.

“Someone had altered the sensor config file to report false readings,” Maeda answered, “We discovered this when the diagnostic report indicated anomalously high levels of dihydroanatoxin-a and epoxyanatoxin-a, which are non-toxic products of the photodegradation of anatoxin-a.”

“How was this accomplished?” Finchley asked.

“As you can imagine,” Maeda explained, “It’s not as simple a matter of sending a false system patch from a remote location. In order to update the config file, it has to be installed on a secure MSD dongle.”

“Who has the ability to do something like this?” Finchley inquired.

“Well,” Maeda professed, “the MSDs used for systems like this are write-once encrypted units manufactured to be incompatible with standard MSD formats – your average logic jockey couldn’t have done this. Apart from the manufacturer and the life support utility company, it’s nearly impossible to acquire one, let alone the 15 needed to hide an algal bloom like this one.”

“Fifteen?” Finchley exclaimed, “So the file wasn’t simply copied to all the other systems?”

“No,” Maeda answered, “Each module has its own dedicated diagnostic and reporting computer, with its own bank of config dongles. The only people who would have both the skills and the access privileges would be CELSS engineers and LSU technicians.”

“There was an LSU technician who serviced the system just hours before the Governor was killed,” Finchley mused, “This is a lead that could be worth pursuing. Is there any reason why Main Manifold B wasn’t affected?”

“It wasn’t on the inspection ticket,” Maeda replied, “Besides, the manifold itself is laborious to service – in order to get to the MSD bank, the entire manifold would have to be removed, which requires the closure of 18 separate green water valves and the disconnection of 23 pipes and conduit. That would be an unexplained gap 20 minutes long, which would arouse suspicion.”

“Thanks,” Finchley said as he handed back the tablet. He choked down the last of his coffee, set his cup down, and went over to the front gate where Nguyen was fuming.

“When you feel like working,” Finchley admonished, “it looks like LSU might have something to do with this.”

“LSU is a union contractor,” Nguyen began, “affiliated with the Lunar Labor League. The LLT has discreet ties with the Selenite Liberation Front–”

“...And by extension,” Finchley finished, “the Organisation.”

0 notes

theoriginalkidwithapen · 4 years

Text

Principia – De Motu Corporum IX

CW: prostitution, drugs, poverty, foul language, interrogation, political prisoners, nudity, colonialism, internalized bigotry, depression

“The areas, which revolving bodies describe by radii drawn to an immovable centre of force do lie in the same immovable planes, and are proportional to the times in which they are described.”

– Sir Issac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

Finchley’s information led him and Nguyen to a run-down residential sector of Surveyor City, where the air was musty and the ceiling lights stubbornly refused to remain lit. While it began its existence as a furnished lava tube, it had since been excavated further to make more living pace, and over the centuries it became what it was, a storied conglomeration of tenements and seedy establishments of every description. “Are you sure this is where the Department of Vigilance keeps its interrogation facility?” Nguyen asked, noting the indigents lying aimlessly against the walls and huddled around open garbage bin fires. The only people in the area who weren’t dressed in rags were the quartet of questionably mature prostitutes sleeping together for warmth in one of the alleys branching off of the main street, and the two older ones touching up their makeup and inhaling aerosolized nicotine as they stood watch over the others at the mouth of the alley. “That’s the beauty of it,” Finchley explained, “Half of the flophouses in this section rent out only to Vigilance operatives based out of this city, and civilian law enforcement maintains a minimal presence here. It’s ideal for Vigilance’s purposes. Here!” He directed Nguyen to a shady-looking payday loan office. The inside of the office was only slightly less grimy than the scene outside, except for the gleaming backlit sign with the company logo molded onto it. Nguyen counted five uniformed guards watching their every move.

Finchley walked up to the front desk and, noting the conspicuous absence of a clerk there, rang the bell for assistance. He rang it again a few more times for good measure, but to no avail. “Well, the service here is shite,” Finchley commented, “Seems like a government enterprise to me.” The backroom door opened promptly, and a matronly woman wearing horn-rimmed spectacles and too much eyeshadow and lipstick emerged. “Can I help you?” she drawled nasally. “I am Inspector Ewan Finchley, Ministry of Inquiry Section 5,” Finchley introduced himself, “I understand that you’re holding one Amsha Yousafzai for questioning in connection with the death of Governor Najjar.” “I’m sorry, hon,” the clerk replied, “but we don’t hold anybody here. If you’re looking for a murder suspect, you might try the security station.” “Listen to me carefully, for I will only say this once,” Finchley threatened, “I know that this establishment is secretly run by the Ministry of Public Safety, I know that you have my person of interest here now, and the amount of time I’m willing to waste on your games is zero, measured down to the millisecond. Now, I am an officer in the Ministry of Inquiry, investigating the death of the Governor-General of the Lunar Colonies, and if I have to go through the Ministry of the Cabinet to get what I want, I’ll be sure to mention you in my report in such an unflattering way that you will personally be cashiered from the civil service for gross incompetence. Now I know that you’re holding Ms. Yousafzai, I want to see her, and I want to see her now, and if that sounds like a threat to you, it is. Now will you let me see her?” “Un-understood, Inspector,” she stammered, dropping the nasal accent, “If you’ll follow me, please.”

Amsha Yousafzai was far too exhausted to be frightened by the situation anymore. Her arms were bound behind her back, her legs fastened to the chair by zip ties. As part of the humiliation they inflicted on her, her captors had stripped her down to her t-shirt and briefs. “We know you assassinated the Governor as part of an anti-Earth plot,” her interrogator, a broad-shouldered Earther man with a deep scar explaining his cybernetic left eye, said angrily, “Who is your contact in the Selenite Nationalist Front?” Amsha didn’t answer. “This could all end right now if you’ll just sign the confession and tell me the names of everyone involved in your crime,” her interrogator said, showing her a tablet with the text of the confession displayed on it, “so sign it and give me the names!” Amsha didn’t answer. “Start talking, bitch!” he roared as he struck her across the face with the back of his hand, sending her crashing to the floor, the chair falling with her. “Goddamned Loonie whore,” he swore to himself as Finchley and Nguyen entered. “What the hell is this!?” Nguyen yelled at the appalling sight of this brute of a man beating a defenseless woman stripped to her underwear, “You get the fuck away from her!” “This is no way to run an interrogation,” Finchley protested sternly, “Why are you abusing her?” “She refuses to sign the confession,” the interrogator said, as if it served to justify his actions. Nguyen righted Amsha in her chair. “Get me a blanket and a first aid kit, motherfucker!” she ordered. “Get two blankets and something to untie her with,” Finchley demanded, “Why hasn’t she signed this confession of yours?” “She doesn’t speak French,” the “clerk” answered, “nor does she speak Amharic, Hindi, or Mandarin.” “And why hasn’t she been provided with a translator?” Finchley asked. “All that’s required of her is to sign the confession,” the “clerk” replied, “Whether she understands it or not is immaterial.” “You said that she doesn’t speak French, or any of the other common languages,” Nguyen asked, “Do you know what language she does speak?” “From what we can determine,” the “clerk” answered, “she only speaks English, if you can believe it. I’m amazed that anyone still speaks that obscure language.” “I’m a native English speaker,” Finchley replied unamusedly, “Perhaps I will produce more satisfactory results than your enhanced interrogation techniques.” “This is a Public Safety matter,” the “clerk” argued, “You have no jurisdiction here.” “A Representative of the Homeworld has been murdered, possibly as part of an insurrectionist plot,” Finchley maintained, “This is a terrorist action as defined in the Homeworld Security and Defence Authorisation Act, Schedule III, which makes this the sole jurisdiction of the Ministry of Inquiry, Section 5. Now, where are those things I asked for – the blankets, the medkit, and the cutting tool?” The former interrogator returned with the requested items. Nguyen took the knife – a robust diamondoid bayonet – and cut Amsha’s hands free. “Both of you, clear out,” Finchley ordered the two strangers. “The Ministry of Public Safety requires that at least one agent supervise the interrogation of any politi–” the “clerk” began. “Did I bloody well stutter?” Finchley thundered. Startled at his demeanor, the “clerk” and her companion practically tripped over themselves as they endeavored to make themselves absent. Nguyen wrapped Amsha up in one of the blankets, covering as much of her nakedness as possible, then opened the medkit and examined her head for serious injury. Amsha flinched when Nguyen’s hand accidentally brushed against the red spot on her face where her former interrogator struck her. “That’ll leave a bruise,” Nguyen diagnosed warmly, “but it looks like you’ll be fine.” Amsha didn’t reply. Finchley folded the other blanket into a triangle and draped it over her head so that it framed her face nicely. Amsha brightened up slightly at the gesture of restoring her modesty to her. She adjusted her makeshift hijab so that it better conformed to her Islamic sensibilities, but she still waited cautiously for the next shoe to drop. “I apologise for your mistreatment,” Finchley said to Amsha in English, “The Ministry of Public Safety are interested only in appearances, not facts, I’m afraid. Are you Amsha Yousafzai?” Amsha didn’t reply. “You’ve nothing to fear from me,” Finchley assured her, “If you cooperate with me, I can protect you from them. Do you understand?” “Yes,” she replied shakily, “I saw you before, as they took me away. Why didn’t you come for me sooner?” “I didn’t have the facts at the time,” Finchley said, “but I believe that we can be of service to each other. If you come with us and answer our questions, we can put you in protective custody with the Ministry of Inquiry. Will you do so?” Amsha spent some time considering the offer. While she found it difficult to believe that she’d be treated any worse by these two, she couldn’t be sure that they wouldn’t, either. Still, she knew that if she didn’t take a chance, nothing would change, and nothing could get better. She was reminded of the stories she was told as a child of her ninth maternal grandmother, who was shot for attending school in a society that forbade girls from being educated, and who went on to inspire and advocate worldwide reform. Amsha always found her story to be a source of great strength and courage, even three centuries after the fact. She took a deep breath. “I’ll go with you,” she answered, “and I will do as you ask.”

Tallen and Sara sat next to each other on the train back to the Grimaldi Elevator base. The train was much less crowded than on the trip over to the city, which to Sara was a welcome change from the claustrophobic tunnels of the Lunar settlement. The silence between them was a little awkward, though, as she had questions she wanted to ask him, but was afraid of the answers, or how he would answer them. “Is…” Sara began, “Is what he said true?” “Is what true?” Tallen asked. Sara looked down at her feet, unsure of how to proceed. “Are Earthers too stupid to live on Mars?” she clarified, “Is that why he set me up with work here on the Moon?” “Oh, that,” Tallen said with distaste, “Well, there’s some truth to every stereotype, and it’s true that Earthers have more trouble integrating into Martian society than most others, but it’s not a matter of stupidity – the communal nature of life in space runs counter to the individualist culture common on Earth, and Earthers often have trouble adjusting to the fact that all of their actions affect everyone else. “As for Jon’s attitude toward Earthers,” he continued apologetically, “I’m afraid he’s got some internalized bigotry to work out. See, he’s a first generation Martian.” Sara looked up at him, confused. “His parents were Earthers who emigrated to Mars,” Tallen clarified, “He was born on the cycler over, which made him a Martian citizen despite his parentage. He’s had to put up with the stigma of being Earthborn all his life. Now, I know Jon – he’s not prone to prejudiced attitudes or behavior. If I had to guess, I think he was just trying to spare you from his own experience, in his own baffling way. I wouldn’t take it personally. If you want, I could yell at him for you. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d do well on our crew,” Tallen appended. “Naw, I’m used to being treated like shit,” Sara said despondently, “Shoulda known better than to hope that good things can happen to me.” “They still can,” Tallen reassured her, “you just need to be patient, and keep your eyes open for the opportunities that will eventually present themselves.” “Just not on Mars,” Sara grumbled. “I wouldn’t dismiss the possibility,” Tallen replied, “the future isn’t predetermined.” “Yeah, but where I’m from,” Sara said, “everyone knows that they have no future.”

The cargo port was essentially a large vertical shaft bored 100 meters below the Lunar surface, with vast storehouses excavated away from the tether’s foundation anchor, which extended a full kilometer further underground. It was here that the cargo elevators that went up and down between the base and Grimaldi Station, some 61,350 kilometers directly above, were loaded and unloaded with cargo of every description. The dockmaster’s office was opposite the shaft of the elevator tether, located just beneath the main pressure door overlooking the whole elevator station. The dockmaster herself, gazing out the window at the operation she directed with a steaming mug of coffee in her hand, was heavyset and muscular for a Selenite, had a forked white scar running across her face like a river and its tributaries in stark contrast to her espresso-colored skin, and wore her raven-black hair in a simple ponytail. She answered her vibrating handset. “Yeah?” she asked, “Send her in.” The door to the office slid open, and Sara was ushered inside. She was a little apprehensive, as one would expect from meeting someone in authority for the first time. “You the Earthfulla Sara Reynolds?” the dockmaster asked, “I’m Tahlia Napangardi, the dockmaster here. Sharqi tells me you’re humbuggin’ the Moonfulla mob for work, unna?” “He told me you had a job for me,” Sara replied, confused at Tahlia’s dialect. Tahlia growled discontentedly. “Hard ‘nuff gettin’ Moonfullas workin’ here,” she said, “now we’re gettin’ Earthgubbahs jobs too? Why are you not at the Ministry of Labour office?” “It’s complicated,” Sara evaded, “Look, I’m strong, I work hard, and I’m used to people treating me like shit. Sounds to me like I’d fit right in here in your… ‘mob.’” Tahlia let out a single hearty laugh and grinned broadly. “You’re no tidda o’ mine,” she said, clapping her hand onto Sara’s shoulder, “but you got a heaps deadly attitude. Cooee, we’ll make a docker outta you yet, unna?” Tahlia knocked back the last of her coffee and led Sara out of her office, down the hall, and into the locker room. “We gotta get you in safety gear first,” Tahlia said as she opened an equipment locker and began pulling out items, “Partial pressure suit – be sorry business if you’re not in one when the pressure doors open, unna?” Sara pulled the suit on while Tahlia continued removing equipment, “Why do you talk like that?” Sara asked. “I’m a Koorie,” Tahlia replied, “an Aboriginal. My mob came up from Australia long ago, after the brushfire burned Melbourne in 2059. Helmet and air tank. Why do you talk like that? Not many Earthfullas speakin’ English no more, unna?” “I’m American,” Sara answered as she put on the air tank next, “English is still the official language there.” “Lock the helmet in the ring like so,” Tahlia said as she helped Sara don her suit, “and hook up the air hoses by colour – this is big spacer business, stylin up to go outside.” “This white one plugs into the chin, right?” Sara asked. “That’s him,” Tahlia said, “My nan used to threaten to flog them young ones for hookin’ up the wrong hoses when I was a little fulla.” “My dad was the same way,” Sara said bitterly, “I still have the scars.” “Ay?” Tahlia asked as she pulled on her own air tank, “Awwww poor darlen, I’m just gammon. I didn’t jeri your dad busted you up. Don’t be sorry, auntie girl.” Tahlia finished suiting up in half the time it took Sara to do so even with her assistance – speed acquired only from a lifetime of practice. She led Sara over to an armored door on the opposite side of the room. The door led to an airlock large enough to accommodate 50 people standing upright. Tahlia sealed the door behind them and opened the outer door to the main cargo shaft. “No traffic due here for another hour,” Tahlia explained as he led Sara down the industrial winder stairs to the top loading deck, “so there’s air in here for now. Keep your suit sealed and be ready to snap that helmet shut at a moment’s notice. If you get a tear, there’s emergency lockers with oxygen bottles and patch kits every 10 metres on all three loading decks, as well as marked shelters.” The lights flickered momentarily on the deck. “Yeah, OK nan,” Tahlia said, and the lights stopped flickering. “Is your nan one of the maintenance people?” Sara asked. “Nahhhh,” Tahlia said jocularly, “she’s just givin’ me a tap tap. My nan passed on some 20 years ago, but this dock has always been her place. When the lights flicker ‘round here, we let her know we know she’s there, and that we’ve still got respect.” “Respect for the dead?” Sara asked. “For everyone,” Tahlia clarified, “For their stories, for their culture, and for their colony. You don’t get it, do you?” “No,” Sara said, “but I want to.” “Straight up?” Tahlia asked, surprised, “Well, maybe you don’t now, but if you listen and pay attention, I think you could get it and be a goodfulla someday. Just remember, you have to show respect to get respect.” “How do I do that?” Sara asked. “We can teach you,” Tahlia replied, clapping her hand onto Sara’s shoulder again, “if you’ll make a good go of learning. Cooee, you stay close to me today, ay? We’ll make a docker outta you yet!”

Misty’s cold shoulder attitude toward Jon was into its seventh hour, and she showed no sign of stopping on her own. He followed a couple paces behind her, as he often did when she got this way, through the claustrophobic tunnels and chaotic, crowded streets. Maybe she wanted him to beg. “Begging your pardon, milady,” he began again, this time in the submissive manner he adopted when they played like this, “but your humble servant perceives that your Magnanimity displays a disturbed demeanor. May he be of service to alleviate this?” Misty stubbornly refused to answer, silent as the vacuum of space. “This is ridiculous,” Jon said in exasperation, dropping the submissive pretense, “Misty, why won’t you talk to me?” Misty stopped abruptly and turned sharply to face him. Jon could see pain, anger, and profound disappointment in her eyes as he glared at him with a stiff upper lip. “What you did back there was out of line, Mr. Orvar!” she barked at him, uncharacteristically enraged. “Back where!?” Jon asked, “I don’t even know what I did!” “Back on the ship,” Misty clarified angrily, “your… – tirade – about your estimate of Sara’s intelligence was unbelievably offensive and absolutely unacceptable! I didn’t know you had it in you!” Jon was about to interject when Misty cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it!” she continued, “You hurt her, Mr. Orvar, when she needed guidance, reassurance, empathy, and understanding! Do you really think she’s a salvage job? Is that what you think of her!?” She paused for a beat, and Jon could see tears beading up in her eyes from her emotional release. “...Is that what…” she began to cry quietly, “...you think of me?” Jon was taken aback by Misty’s comparison. She too was once a baseline human – no genetic engineering or augmentative surgery – before she came to live with him. Although she did later get wired up like he did, plus some corrective surgery to strengthen her bones and muscles, she never once complained like this or gave any indication that she still felt like an outsider. “I…” Jon began apologetically, “I didn’t know you felt that way. I’m sorry I hurt you.” “I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” Misty replied, “but I’ll accept it nonetheless.” “Thank you,” Jon said sheepishly, “I don’t know why you put up with me.” Misty took his hand. “I love you,” she declared gently, “but this… misdirected self-loathing of yours only brings you misery, and it hurts everyone around you.” “I’m sorry,” Jon repeated sincerely. “It’s not a criticism, anata,” Misty said reassuringly, “it’s just something for you to be mindful of. We can work on it together.” “I’m sorry,” Jon repeated. “Please,” Misty urged gently, “stop apologizing.” “I’m–” Jon caught himself, “sorry, shin’aina.” “Let’s go,” Misty said, “We mustn’t be late.” They continued to negotiate the throng, the busy, bustling boardwalk buffeting them to and fro as they processed. The tunnel led to a bridge that crossed a larger, more open street. Across that bridge was another passage, which led to another labyrinth of hollows. This being one of the nicer sectors of Surveyor City, home to a large portion of the colony’s nightlife and other amenities which catered to the mostly-Earther tourists, these corridors were well-lit and relatively clean, given the amount of foot traffic that came through here at all hours. Turning down a few more of thee dugouts, they arrived at the central dome, which was the most terrestrial space in the whole settlement – wide open spaces, free-standing buildings, public parks and bodies of water, a simulated day/night cycle projected onto the dome’s interior surface; the only indication that this scene was truly extraterrestrial was the image of the Earth displayed in its proper place in the night sky of Sinus Medii: slightly southeast of the dome’s apex. Following the promenade down to street level, they navigated the rows of apartments, office blocks, and storefronts to the Magisterial Mall, the quality of which steadily improved as they approached that august plaza. Coming out from the barrier of painstakingly manicured hedges, they loped down the cobblestone sidewalks, alongside the meticulously trimmed lawns protected by the plethora of “keep off the grass” signs and a low white fence marking its boundaries. Jon and Misty marveled at this spectacular waste of water created solely to give Earthers comfort and peace of mind because they were unwilling to do without their luxurious blue skies and gentle, sunny days. They passed by rows of trees inside masonry planters down to the waterfront. The water was still, calm, and surrounded by stainless steel fencing. The simulated Earthlight reflected romantically on its surface, creating a poetic atmosphere worthy of an elegant haiku. Across the artificial embankment, they could see the walled compound of the Martian embassy. Misty even took the opportunity to take Jon’s arm lovingly as their stroll led them through this ostentatious display of Earth’s material wealth to their destination. Jon and Misty knew full well that the embassy was deceptively fortified – in addition to the hidden laser turrets concealed behind mirrored windows, the reinforced Marscrete walls, deployable tungsten carbide barriers, remote-controlled anti-armor and anti-personnel land mines, and a full contingent of MCM armsmen garrisoning it, this bastion was also equipped with one of the new hard light holographic rampart arrays developed by Campbell Power systems, an electrical power industry company that subcontracted for the Mars Colonial Militia to develop and manufacture directed energy weapons. This particular apparatus, which used the principle of the Rydberg Blockade to make ultraviolet photons interact with each other to form photonic molecules which create an invisible, tangible barrier like the “force field” of science fiction, was a closely guarded secret of the Martian military-industrial complex, and Jon and Misty only knew about it because they needed to know once. Passing through the front gate, the two were discreetly scanned for weapons and logged by embassy security, where they would be monitored closely by the embassy cyphont. While in the backyard of an adversarial declining empire, dreaming of its glory days of eminence and power, the Mars government was taking no chances with the safety of their diplomatic outpost. Jon and Misty saluted the armsmen holding ceremonial guard over the entrance to the consulate building – a woman and an android with a matte off-black plastic casing. The two returned the salute as they passed. They climbed the stairs to the second level, took two left turns and a right, and continued to a conference room guarded by two more armsmen. Upon seeing them, the most senior of them – a Chief Armsman, judging by his rank insignia – opened the door and ushered them in. Waiting for them was a panel of stone-faced men, women, and another android, all dressed in the rusted red, terracotta, butterscotch, shale gray, and iron black camouflage regalia of the Mars Colonial Militia, all of which were high-ranking officers. Jon and Misty saluted them. “Commander Jon Orvar and Officer Trainee Kasumi Noelani, Operations-9, reporting for debriefing as ordered,” Jon declared with military sharpness. “Commander, Trainee,” the android, a gynetypical construct with a polished bronze casing vocalized through the grille where her mouth would be if she were human, “take your seats.” Jon and Misty obediently sat down. “Where is Master Chief Olayinka?” a severe woman of Kerepunu ancestry inquired intently. “He is on assignment, evaluating a prospective crewmember,” Jon reported. Misty fought to hide her surprise at this revelation. “Is he available for teleconferencing?” she replied. “No, colonel,” Jon answered, “The Earth Forces defense command has been on high alert ever since EML-1 Colony 7 exploded 15 hours, 11 minutes, and 61 seconds ago. It is this commander’s opinion that the risk of comms interception is too great. “Agreed,” a hardened man of Lithuanian descent whose entire right side of his face had been replaced with cybernetic implants due to battle damage said stoically, “In light of your team’s recent capture and interrogation by Threat forces, it would be best to deny them the opportunity to confirm their suspicions.” “There was no indication that the team in question had been identified as covert intelligence operatives,” Jon answered, “only baseless accusations that they were terrorists responsible for the destruction of Colony 7.” “O7’s report concurs with your conclusion,” the android pronounced, “However, I think it likely that all elements of your team have been flagged for closer observation.” “That is a reasonable assumption,” Jon acknowledged, “This team should return to Mars for reidentification.” “That will be determined by the findings of this inquiry,” the Kerepunu colonel pontificated, “We, the Operations-9 Unconventional Warfare Division Earth Sphere Operations Oversight Committee, hereby authorize and commence this debriefing.”

Amsha Yousafzai’s disposition improved vastly once she was properly fed, clothed, and furnished with accommodations. While she was still in an Earth government jail cell, at least she was under protective custody in comfortable surroundings and not abused, humiliated, or dehumanized by not captors, but protectors.

She had begun to use the service she had been provided with to steep a pot of black Ceylon tea when the door chime sounded.

“Please enter,” she called. The door to her cell opened, and Finchley did as she asked.

Amsha’s face brightened at seeing him again – Finchley was pleased to see a smile on her face. “Inspector Finchley,” she greeted him, “Welcome! I just started a pot of tea, would you like some?”

“Please,” Finchley replied, and sat down on top of the toilet, which served as the only seat in the room apart from the bed. Amsha went to the cupboard and got another teacup.

“Well,” Finchley noted, “you seem to have settled in nicely. How are you feeling?”

Amsha paused. “Better,” she said with a melancholy tone to her voice, “At least I have been treated like a human being here.”

“Do you feel comfortable answering some questions now?” Finchley asked.

“Yes,” Amsha replied, “Yes, I am. I’ll bring the tea here, so that it will be at hand when it’s ready.”

“How thoughtful,” Finchley said as Amsha deposited the tea service onto the dresser, “but you don’t need to serve me, you know. I can manage.”

“It’s no trouble,” Amsha said as she sat down on her bed with practiced propriety, opposite Finchley, “I want to do this. Now, ask your questions, if you please.”

“Very well,” Finchley agreed, “Did you have any reason to harm Governor Najjar, or to wish him harm?”

“No,” Amsha replied, hurt at the insinuation, “I could never bring myself to harm the Governor-General, or anyone else for that matter. Are you accusing me of his murder?”

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Finchley assured her, “It’s just that you were the last person to see the Governor alive, so naturally you’d be the prime suspect in this investigation. These questions are routine for this sort of endeavour, so please remain calm and answer completely and truthfully, all right?”

“I understand, Inspector,” Amsha answered, “Please continue.”

“Very well,” Finchley assented, “Do you know of anyone who would wish him harm, and would have had the opportunity to murder him?”

“No,” Amsha denied.

“According to your social media account,” Finchley continued, “you’ve shared several memes posted by your sister Nadiyya that promote anti-Earth sentiments and Lunar independence. Do you consider yourself sympathetic to the Selenite Liberation Front or its goals or ideology?”

“No,” Amsha repeated, “Nadi was radicalised by the Front years ago, but I was never involved, and all of those things I shared are unrelated to the independence movement.”

“Even the one likening the Selenite suicide rate to the Hafrada Mukheletett,” Finchley pressed, “and the colonial government to ancient Zionist death camps?”

“It is a fact that immigration from Earth has risen at nearly the same rate as Selenite suicides,” Amsha clarified, “While my sister believed that this is evidence of genocide, I just thought that the deaths themselves were worth drawing attention to.”

“Have you been in contact with your sister recently?” Finchley interrogated.

“She died last August,” Amsha said, “Anatoxin poisoning from water contamination.”

“That’s very interesting,” Finchley noted, “The Governor was killed by anatoxin poisoning.”

Amsha was shocked. “That couldn’t be,” she whispered, “The life support system of the Governor’s Residence had its monthly diagnostic just yesterday – the LSU technician said that there weren’t any problems with it!”

“The technician reported no malfunctions?” Finchley asked, “No water or air contamination?”

“None at all,” Amsha said, “I looked over the report myself and it was nothing but nominal. We would have been informed if anything was wrong, especially if the water were contaminated!”

“Well then,” Finchley asked, “if the water wasn’t contaminated, then how did the Governor ingest anatoxin?”

“I–” Amsha stammered helplessly, “I-I don’t know! None of this makes any sense!”

Finchley stoically watched Amsha come to the brink of tears. He did feel for her, but he couldn’t deny that her denials were borne of fear of punishment, not a profession of innocence. She still might be responsible for the Governor’s death.

“The tea is getting cold,” Finchley advised, “You should probably drink some while it’s still warm.”

Amsha nodded and sniffled as she began to pour the tea.

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theoriginalkidwithapen · 4 years

Text

Principia – De Motu Corporum VIII

CW: foul language, poverty, crime, sex work, prostitution, gambling, drinking, nudity, sex, infidelity, murder, death, poisoning, political prisoners

“The evanescent subtense of the angle of contact, in all curves which at the point of contact have a finite curvature, is ultimately in the duplicate ratio of the subtense of the conterminate arc.”

– Sir Issac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

The transit tube was much like the ones back in Minneapolis, Sara thought, more crowded, and obviously the gravity was lower, but the sounds and smells of dozens of people from all walks of life crammed into a tiny compartment was much the same. The cabin was full of people discussing the minutiae of their daily lives, or on their tablets. The walls were covered in video advertisements, and every so often a clearly synthetic voice would call out stop names in French, Amharic, Hindi, and Mandarin. The stark contrast between the lit and unlit parts of the cab reminded her of a certain dive bar back home, or of an early-morning light rail ride. “So, where are we goin’?” Sara asked Tallen quietly. “We’re almost there,” Tallen replied cryptically. “We’ve been riding trains for hours,” Sara complained, “I’m fucking beat.” “What, a strong, stout Earther like you getting tired of standing in 1/6th gravity?” Jon jabbed, “Masaka.” “You know,” Sara growled, “I’ve just about had it with your Martian master race bullshit!” Jon scoffed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Why,” Sara asked, her blood pressure rising, “‘cause I’m a dumbfuck Earther!?” Misty laid a hand on Sara’s shoulder gently, but firmly. “It’s not that,” she said with equal gravitas, “but you really don’t know. Please drop this, at least for now.” Sara grunted disgruntledly. “Quartier Centaure Huit,” the synthetic voice announced, “Senitawa Āwiraja Siminiti. Sentoor Jila Aath. Bàn Rénma Bā Qū. Veuillez sortir du métro sur le côté droit. Ibakiwo kek’enyi bekuli kemerēti baburi yiwit’u. Krpaya daeen or metro se baahar nikalen. Qĭng zài yòu cè tuìchū dìtiĕ.” “That’s our stop,” Jon declared, “Centaur District 8. We’d best be moving.”

The train came to a stop at the station, where the boarding gantries extended to completely cover the doors on the right side. The entire car shook briefly with the loud hiss of exchanging gases as the gantries pressurized. The light on the door closest to Jon remained red to indicate a bad seal, even as the others on the car turned green before those doors opened. Tallen hefted his heavy titanium briefcase, and he and Ayane led the way out, as they were the closest to a working door. The scene awaiting them was distinctly stygian, befitting a settlement constructed inside a cavern deep underground. The buildings were mostly set inside the rock walls, the lunar stone melding into the concrete-like material that composed the structures. The other free-standing buildings were made of the same material. The artificial lighting was intermittent at best, and as they made their way through the poorly-lit and litter-strewn alleys, Sara was struck by how familiar this place was, even though she had never been there before in her life. She realized that even here on the Moon, there were places where only the desperate and destitute dwelled. Apparently, a slum is a slum, no matter what planet you’re on. Their sojourn took them to the far side of the cave, and up three levels to an underdeveloped area of the settlement, which was only lit by the green tritium emergency lamps. Stacked up against the walls were crates of building supplies: stacks of ventilation sections, bundles of pipes and conduit, rolls of optical cable and electrical wire, and other materials used in turning caves into homes. The five of them negotiated this makeshift maze of surplus supply stockpiles, and after turning a corner, they entered a room stacked floor-to-ceiling with more building supplies, where a spindly Selenite man and a thickset terrestrial woman loitered suspiciously. The woman looked them over coldly while the man adjusted the brim of his cally cap with one hand and surreptitiously reached into his long coat with the other, probably for a weapon. “I’m here trawling for iron goldfish,” Jon announced cryptically, “How are they biting?” “Rather well,” the woman replied, “I bet it’ll be a good haul today.” She motioned to her associate, who slowly removed his empty hand from his coat. The woman wheeled a manual pallet jack underneath a stack of lunar concrete mix crates and pulled it back, revealing a hatch set in a concrete mounting which was melded into the rock wall. She knocked twice on the door, which unlocked with a metallic clang and swung open. Jon led the others inside, where two men and a woman in suits and mirrorshades waited inside another room, with another hatch on the other side. The first woman closed the hatch behind them and bolted it shut. Tallen surrendered his briefcase to them. “I’ll want that back unopened when we leave,” he said. “Of course, zayir,” one of the men said as he opened a wall safe, placed the briefcase inside, and locked it securely shut. The second woman and the other man proceeded to search them with professional purpose and efficiency – the man frisking Jon and Tallen, and the woman patting down Misty, Sara, and Ayane. “They’re clean,” the two reported once they were satisfied that Jon and company weren’t carrying anything dangerous. The first man reported into a microphone, and the other hatch unlocked and swung open. “Mr. Sharqi will see you now,” he said to the five, “He’s in the usual place. Standard terms apply.” “Keep all noise below 80 decibels so that the enclave doesn’t show up on standard seismographs,” Jon recited, “No cheating at the casino. A two-drink limit at the bar is strictly enforced. No violence of any kind. Be courteous to the prostitutes and tip them generously. Sale of restricted or illegal goods is permitted as long as the items themselves are transferred outside of the enclave. This enclave is a place for extra-legal business, and will not arbitrate disputes between clients. The Organization assumes no responsibility for transactions made between clients. Anything that happens here stays here. Violation of these terms is punishable by banishment from the enclave or summary exile to the lunar surface, at the Management’s discretion. Did I miss anything?” “That about covers it,” the first man replied, “Enjoy the hospitality, compliments of the Organization.” They continued through the lunar concrete tunnel, turned another tunnel, and crossed an ornate threshold veiled in gossamer lavender curtains and flanked by two more guards in suits and mirrorshades. On the other side of the curtains lay a scene portrayed in spy thriller and true crime dramas for centuries – a lively, celebratory gathering with a Bohemian atmosphere, or at least something evocative of the Middle East. The threshold opened onto a balcony overlooking the room, with two opulent staircases leading downwards. Breaking with the stereotype, there were no belly dancers, fire breathers, or sword swallowers, no snake charmers, magicians, hookahs, or incense, no exotic animals or palm frond fans – just the architecture, decor, furnishings, and low ambient music were true to form. The casino exhibited a dizzying range of games, from baccarat to mahjong, craps to pachinko. While the slot machines were flashy, they were far quieter than the blackjack and poker tables. Judging by the sheer quantity of chips changing hands, it was obvious that entire fortunes were being wagered, won, and lost here. There were dozens of patrons playing the games, conversing with each other at the bar and in the booths, and enjoying the company of the scantily-clad men and women there to provide pleasurable companionship and other intimate services for the right fee. Jon took particular notice of the black-suited strongmen and women discreetly standing guard and holding vigil over the entire soiree. As they descended down the staircase, Jon caught a few lingerie-clad lovelies checking them out. He craned his neck to face Misty. “Itoshii,” he said, “this would be a good opportunity for you to rent some company, if you want.” Misty silently rebuffed him. “What did I do?” he muttered to himself. Sara marveled at the scene around her – this kind of decadence was far beyond her experience, or her imagination. Back in Minneapolis, even the most miniscule measure of wealth displayed here would have been enough to kill over, and some of the sums squandered here could buy an enterprising prob a one-way ticket to full citizenship and a life of plenty in the Spire. Who knew that such incomprehensible riches could be found here, buried a kilometer beneath the face of the Moon? “How can a place like this be here?” she asked in abject awe. “The Organization dug these tunnels in secret decades ago,” Tallen answered, “They’re insulated with some of the best soundproofing that money can buy, and they have their own power and life support systems independent of the colony’s municipal grid. As far as Lunar Security is concerned, this place doesn’t exist.” “Not that,” she said, her vocabulary inadequate to the task of articulating her wonder, “How can this place be here?” “Pretty much everyone here is a criminal,” Tallen tried to explain, “and they make their fortunes dishonestly – robbery, gambling, sale of drugs or guns, contract killing, extortion, information brokerage, ransom seeking, the list goes on. All of them are ruthless enough to take what they want when they think they can get away with it, and it’s that uncompromising nature that’s won them their ill-gotten gains. Despite what you may have heard growing up, crime does pay, at least in the short term.” “I’m no stranger to crime,” Sara said, “So, what kind of dishonesty do y’all get up to around here?” “We’re information brokers,” Tallen replied, “of a sort.” Jon led them past the bar, up the spiral staircase, and down a sultry corridor. They negotiated their way around a couple making out next to an open bedroom door, and they rounded the next corner and came to a finely crafted wooden door with two more black-suited flunkies standing guard outside it. “I’m here to see the boss,” Jon told them, “Tell him it’s Ugly Helen.” One of the guards knocked on the door. He spoke briefly, and then opened it. “The boss will see you now,” the guard said as he ushered them inside. The room inside was incongruously ascetic compared to the outside. While the walls were a palatial vermilion color with gold highlights, they lacked the drapes hanging from hooks like the other rooms, and the only furnishings were a low table in the middle, a credenza against one wall with a drinks set placed on a tray made from fine Lunar silver, a desk with an antique computer and a chair, and three seats and a matching sofa placed around the table. Overhead, a ceiling fan turned slowly over a Tiffany-style stained glass light fixture, casting warm light about the room. There were three people in the room – a man and two women. The man was a short Arab with thick black sideburns on an otherwise clean-shaven face, wearing a black suit with a matching fedora, his slight build and gangly proportions telltale signs of his Selenite physiotype. He was sitting on the sofa, with one of the women on each arm, who were smothering him with affection and laughing at his jokes. The woman on his right arm was a Finnish vision clad in a glossy black latex lingerie set which accentuated her alluring curvature with aesthetic perfection, and a black ribbon wrapped around her neck, fastened by a silver clasp. The woman on his left, a Sonoran desert rose in a sheer lacy lily-white bodysuit with matching stockings and opera gloves. “Now there’s the face that sank a thousand ships,” the man said upon noticing Jon’s presence, “We’ll catch up later, loves. Run along, maybe something will turn up.” The two women kissed the man on the cheek, and then stood up and sashayed out of the room. “Such a delight, those two,” the man commented as the guard closed the door behind them, “not that you’d appreciate what they have to offer, Mr. Orvar. Their… ...talents… would be wasted on you, wouldn’t they?” “No, I’m sure they’re great conversationalists,” Jon replied unironically, “I take it one’s a lawyer, and the other’s a cyberneticist?” “How droll,” the man scoffed, “As it turns out, Esteri has an education equal to any juris doctor from Earth, and Rosita’s skills as a geneticist would earn her status and privilege at any agricultural colony in the Earth Sphere if they weren’t cursed with the profound misfortune of being born here on Luna.” “What does being born on the Moon have to do with–” Sara began before Jon motioned for her to shut up. “‘...With their careers as hostesses?” the man finished with a light grin on his face, “For over a century of Earther rule, Earthers have been given preference for employment opportunities over Selenites, to the point where the Earth government will train or educate an Earther from the ground up rather than hire a qualified Selenite who doesn’t also require an acclimation course so they don’t trip over their own feet. Unfortunately, the Organisation have little use for a geneticist, and poor Esteri cannot legally practise law because somehow there’s never an opening for a Loonie to take the bar exam. While the situation is far from ideal, the Organisation offer them and others like them work while they search for better opportunities elsewhere, and we even try to get them out of Earth-controlled space so they can make the most of their lives. We may be criminals, but we’re not savages.” “On a side note,” the man said with a smirk, “it’s just like an Earther to call Luna ‘the Moon,’ as if it were the only one.” “Gentlesophs,” Jon declared, “allow me to introduce Juda Sharqi, de facto leader of the Organization and wannabe interplanetary man of mystery.” “I take offence to that ‘wannabe’ part,” Sharqi said jocularly. “How about we get down to business,” Ayane curtly interrupted, “Did my package arrive, Mr. Sharqi?” “Yes, indeed it has,” Sharqi said as he got up and motioned for her to follow him to the computer. He swiped his hand in front of the monitor to wake it up. Ayane passed a thumbnail-sized wafer of plastic and silicon to him, which Sharqi placed on a pad directly underneath the monitor. A window popped open and a loading bar appeared. “It’s decrypting,” Sharqi said with breathless anticipation, “We shall see what secrets are in store for us shortly…” He realized how he sounded, and adjusted his composure to compensate. “May I offer any of you a drink?” he asked graciously, “We have 27 minutes and 55 seconds to kill, and I’m prepared to offer you every amenity that my establishment can provide so that the time will pass more pleasantly.”

Finchley sat there in the dark, his face and bare chest illuminated by the glow of his tablet screen as he studied the case file on the death of Governor Najjar. He reviewed the security footage again. The ill-fated governor was sitting down to dinner. His maid – the Selenite woman who was dragged off in irons by the Department of Vigilance, it seemed – served him his meal, some sort of spicy curry on a bed of rice. He began eating while she went back to fetch the next course of his dinner. After a minute, he motioned for her to immediately attend him, and she dutifully obeyed, bringing a pitcher with her. She filled his water glass, from which he began to drink deeply. He finished guzzling from his glass, and then extended the empty chalice to the maid, who filled it once more. He must have underestimated the heat of that entreé, Finchley thought with a smirk, The flavour appears to be too much for him. The governor continued eating with great gusto, until he started to choke. The maid hurried to pour him another glass of water, but he began convulsing, accidentally knocking the crystal goblet out of her hand, spilling water onto the table and the glass to shatter on impact with the floor. His breathing stopped, and the maid ran to the intercom to call for help. He gasped for air for about a minute while his body twitched uncontrollable, before he collapsed, planting his face into his plate. His maid was clearly frightened by the violent scene before her, and didn’t quite know how to handle the situation. Governor Najjar was dead within five minutes. “Computer,” Finchley ordered softly, “identify the other person in the room.” The video paused. The maid’s face was enlarged, the image enhanced, and a wireframe superimposed over it, measuring and analyzing her features. After a second of processing, her dossier came up in a new window: Amsha Yousafzai, born in Surveyor City, the Moon, July 12th, 2270. Arrested by the Ministry of Public Safety, Department of Vigilance on January 12th, 2293 on charges of assassination of a government executive, treason, sedition, incitement to rebellion, conspiracy to commit the aforementioned crimes, membership in an anti-Earth political organization… the list went on. Finchley couldn’t tell which of these charges were true and which were fictions invented by the Ministry to make her out to be an agent of a sinister anarchist syndicate bent on bloody revolution – by its nature as a pro-Earth political office, the Ministry of Public Safety was keen to make examples of those whom they perceived to be enemies of the Union. Before yesterday, Ms. Yousafzai had a spotless record – one couldn’t find gainful employment in the Lunar Civil Service with a criminal history. Of those entries in her background referring to political activism, Finchley was convinced were bonsfaits planted by the Department of Veracity, another arm of the Ministry of Public Safety, in order to paint the picture of a villain that they had a moral obligation to bring to justice. Nguyen awoke from her slumber, the bedsheets sliding off of her soft, smooth skin as she stirred from somnolence. Seeing her beloved sitting in the dark, reviewing the evidence accumulated on their shared case, she marveled at his dedication. The murder investigation wasn’t the only thing they shared recently. While she admired him for his passion for both his duty and for her, she did wish that he didn’t feel the need to do the work without her. She sat up, rubbed the fatigue from her eyes, and crept up to her feet. The carpet made silent her footfalls with her bare feet, and she glided over and embraced Finchley sensually from behind. The tension from Finchley’s brooding slackened as Nguyen cradled his head between her voluminous breasts – the soothing suppleness of her naked skin; the invigorating musk of the sweat covering her body; her gentle, steady heartbeat – all these attributes of hers and more offered him the comfort and solace he needed after all that had happened to him recently. “Please don’t do that, love,” Finchley sighed contentedly, “I really need to work.” “Have you forgotten that I’m a pretty good detective, too?” Nguyen playfully asked him, “Aren’t we supposed to be partners?” “Mmm,” Finchley replied dispassionately as he tried to disentangle himself from her embrace, “This woman, Amsha Youafzai, doesn’t really seem like the type who would kill in the name of some revolutionary cause. She has no criminal history, a reasonably high social credit rating, and I’m convinced that the reports of her political activities are fabrications made to make her look like an anti-Earth malcontent, so why would she, of all people, just decide to murder the governor one day? I feel like I’m missing something.” “That’s obvious,” Nguyen pouted as she came around and made herself comfortable sitting on his lap, “The Ministry of Public Safety has a political agenda. Here on the Moon, malcontents tend to be Loonies who are opposed to Earth’s government of the colonies. So, the Ministry keeps anti-Earth movements here in check by cracking down on them from time to time.” Finchley couldn’t help but notice how the glow from his tablet highlighted every contour of her curvaceous, naked body as she draped her arms around his shoulders and gently ran her fingers up and down his spine. Astute observations aside, it was clear that she would rather play than work right now. “I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel that I’ve been ignoring you,” Finchley said as he set his tablet onto the end table and let its lambence illuminate whatever pleasures that Nguyen had in store for him. “It’s all right, Ewan,” Nguyen said lasciviciously as she changed position and straddled his lap, her generous bosom nearly smothering his face, “I know how important your work is to you, and what we have was never really about the sex, was it?” “I’ve always found you to be a balm which soothed my world-weary soul, both within and without the bedroom,” Finchley whispered tenderly, “You were there for me when Sinead only valued me for my salary and Ministry privileges. I honestly do not know what I could have done to deserve you, love.” “You have your own charm,” Nguyen said with loving affection, “and I don’t mind you letting me wait, as long as it’s not for too long. For now, let’s just… enjoy ourselves.” Nguyen began to gyrate on top of Finchley, her breasts smooshing, rubbing, and massaging his face as she heaved up and down. Finchley let go of his consummate professionalism and allowed himself to be immersed in the joy and sensuality that would come when he did. This was paradise.

The data on Ayane’s MSD was about 63% decrypted, and Sharqi was getting restless. Jon was nursing his koukuhai in typical Martian fashion. “Hey, Sharqi,” he said, hoping to alleviate his host’s agitation, “can I talk to you for a minute?” Sharqi motioned over to the minibar, which Jon followed him to. “What did you want to talk about?” Sharqi asked as he poured himself another martini. “I need a favor,” Jon said, getting Sharqi’s attention, “That Earther girl in the jumpsuit over there?” He gestured to Sara, who was stunning Misty, Ayane, and the three new Selenite hostesses that Sharqi brought in with her sheer capacity for vodka – judging by the number of empty glasses on the table, she had just downed her eighth shot and showed no signs of stopping. “What about her?” Sharqi asked. “I’d like you to see if you can set her up with some work,” Jon continued. “The Organisation is not in the business of offering employment to Earthers,” Sharqi replied bitterly as he finished pouring the vermouth into the mixing glass, ‘If she wants a job, she can apply with the Ministry of Labour.” “If he does that, she’ll end up disappeared at an Earth Forces blacksite,” Jon argued, “I want you to help me give her another option.” “Why should I care what the Earthers do with her?” Sharqi asked as he stirred his drink with perhaps a little too much vigor, “If I pull strings to get her employed, it’ll damage my credibility with the labour associations. I’ll be ruined!” “I don’t intend to make a habit of it,” Jon said, “I just thought you’d want her to repay you for all those drinks.” The left corner of Sharqi’s mouth tensed in displeasure as he watched Sara down her ninth shot of vodka. “Perhaps I shall,” Sharqi muttered as he savagely impaled an olive with a toothpick, “Can she do anything useful, or should I have her play hostess for our harder-drinking patrons?” “Until yestersol, she was a soybean farmer on EML-1 #7,” Jon mentioned offhandedly, “so I suppose she could be helpful doing heavy lifting in a warehouse somewhere.” “I’ll ask my associate at the Docker’s Association if they have an opening,” Sharqi said before taking a sip, “but I can’t promise that anything will come of it. They won’t be happy about hiring a coloniser, but if she can do the work, they should tolerate her.” “That’ll suffice,” Jon said as he watched Sara slam back a tenth shot of vodka and briefly lose her balance as the intoxicating effect of the alcohol careened into her system. “I only hope I don’t regret this,” Sharqi sighed before drinking deeply from his martini. “I’m tellin’ ya,” Sara slurred as she collapsed onto the lap of the Korean hostess wearing a back lacy babydoll with matching stockings, “thish ish da best shit in da whole mothafuckin’ galacshii! Ah wuz raiz’d on screech, an’ dat shit ish da shit, if ya know what ah mean…” She fell asleep with a sigh of contentment, her head nestled in the crook of the hostess’ neck. The hostess, not quite sure how to handle the situation, wrapped her arms around Sara’s chest and began gently stroking Sara’s jaw with the backs of her first two fingers. “I’m beginning to have regrets,” Sharqi said firmly. Jon growled in agreement.

Finchley and Nguyen sat a discreet distance from each other on the monorail ride to the Lunar Security headquarters module, located in the cephalothorax region of Grimaldi station. While there wasn’t any particular reason for them to pretend that they were strangers, it was an old habit of theirs from when Finchley was still married and they needed to conduct their relationship clandestinely. Even though there wasn’t anything inappropriate about their conduct anymore, strictly speaking, they still felt self-conscious being seen together, especially when coming out of a love hotel. The Lunar Security Solutions headquarters station was a fortress – its hardened, reinforced structure emphasized further by its robust, overstated Earth architecture. Finchley imagined that even if the entire station were destroyed in some cataclysm, this module would probably survive it intact somehow. Finchley and Nguyen entered through the stainless steel double doors with ballistic glass windows, and proceeded to the security checkpoint. Before passing through the scanner arch, they both presented their badges to the guards and surrendered their sidearms. They passed through to the other side without incident, and passed the booking desks and strode through the bullpen to the forensic labs, where they entered the room that was their destination – Laboratory #4. There was an atrium for scrubbing up before entering, which the two ignored as they marched through into the lab itself. The laboratory was cold, sterile, and brightly lit. In the center was an examination table, upon which lay the naked cadaver that was once Governor Najjar. Surrounding them on the outside walls were workbenches, microscopes, centrifuges, sample containers, diagnostic devices of every description, computer monitors – everything one would expect to find in a medical lab tasked with performing an autopsy. There were two people in surgical togs present, the station coroner and a forensics technician, both of whom were aghast at the detectives’ flouting of clean room protocol. “You can’t come in here like that!” the coroner yelled, “This is a sterile area!” “The man’s dead,” Nguyen said dismissively, “He’s not going to catch anything from me.” “Detective Nguyen?” the forensics technician asked, “Could you two wait outside? I’ll bring the report out to you.” Their expression indicated that they wouldn’t take no for an answer. Finchley and Nguyen returned the way they came, and were soon joined by the technician, who handed Nguyen a tablet. “I can save you about three minutes and give you the Governor’s cause of death,” the technician said as Nguyen scrolled through the information displayed on the tablet, “He was killed by poison.” “It says here that his bloodstream has traces of C10H15NO,” Nguyen commented, “Anatoxin-a?” “Yes,” the technician confirmed, “There have been a lot of anatoxin deaths recently. I suppose this was bound to happen when the utilities service gets its budget cut again.” “How did all the other victims get poisoned?” Finchley inquired. “Anatoxin-a is a chemical produced by certain species of cyanobacteria,” the technician said, crossing their arms, “It kills in minutes by blocking acetylcholine receptors in neurons and other cells. It usually shows up in water that’s been contaminated by toxic algae blooms. Collins Dome in Tranquility Base just had a case of algae contamination so bad that the entire sector was without air or water for two weeks while they purged the entire life support grid. Even with emergency shipments of bottled water, oxygen candles, and portable latrines and CO2 scrubbers, hundreds of people died as a result.” “Do you suppose that the governor drank contaminated water?” Finchley asked. “That’s just not possible!” Nguyen said abruptly, “The Governor’s Residence has its own life support grid independent of the station’s, and it’s examined regularly for problems, including water contamination.” “So you’re saying that the Governor was deliberately poisoned!?” the technician asked, astonished. “The Department of Vigilance arrested a Selenite maid at the Governor’s Residence,” Finchley noted, “and they’re not holding back on the charges.” “It sounds like we should interview this maid ourselves, then,” Nguyen said, “Know of any places where Vigilance keeps its political prisoners?” “As a matter of fact, I do,” Finchley stated.

The MSD finished decrypting, and its directory folders laid out its contents like a grand menu.

“56.7 Terablocks of some of the most sinister secrets in the solar system,” Sharqi shuddered in breathless anticipation, “A pearl of great price – and it’s all mine.”

Sharqi was so excited, he’d vibrate straight through the floor if he shuddered much more quickly, Jon thought.

“Don’t forget our agreement,” Jon reminded him, “I expect a copy of that.”

“And more,” Sharqi replied, “I’ll make that call to the Docker’s Association.”

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theoriginalkidwithapen · 4 years

Text

Principia – De Motu Corporum VII

CW: ableist language, foul language, death, murder, poisoning, colonialism, government surveillance, divorce, infidelity, coronavirus mention

“The spaces which a body describes by any finite force urging it, whether that force is determined and immutable, or is continually augmented or continually diminished, are in the very beginning of the motion one to the other in the duplicate ratio of the times.”

– Sir Issac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

It took Peregrine about an hour to arrive at Grimaldi Station from the remains of Fasal under the power of her Orbital Maneuvering System. These engines, among the latest in a long line of auxiliary propulsion systems dating back to the dawn of manned spaceflight, were used to reorient and propel spacecraft when it would be inappropriate to use the main engines. Unlike its distant ancestors, Peregrine’s OMS didn’t use hideously toxic and corrosive hypergolic fuels, but was instead propelled by superheating purified water with high-energy microwaves. Peregrine was equipped with 931 of these little thrusters, each the size of a steel drum and arranged in clusters of 133 to allow translation along all three spatial axes, with an additional cluster at the rear to expedite forward acceleration, and as they had no electrodes or moving parts, and used an easily stored propellant, Microwave Electrothermal Thrusters made for ideal reaction control units for large spacecraft. From the outside, Grimaldi Station resembled a spider dropping down from the Moon on a filament of its silk – its legs splayed out in all directions. However, this description betrays a geocentric view, as in actuality Grimaldi Station was standing atop a 61,350-kilometer-tall tower, held in place by its position at EML-1, which allowed the station to hover motionlessly above Sinus Medii exactly at the Moon’s 0º latitude and right ascension coordinates. The tower contained dozens of elevator rails to easily transport people and freight between Grimaldi Station and Surveyor City below on the lunar surface – it was a vital, delicate lifeline for the lunar colonies, which were buried under the surface to protect their inhabitants from the deadly radiation aboveground.

Peregrine gently coasted into a berth on the northwestern “leg” of the station, which stuck out from it like the hairs on a tarantula’s exoskeleton. There were hundreds of these gantries, many of them with spacecraft docked. Peregrine pointed her nose at the blue Earth as she docked, so that her decks ran parallel to the lunar surface. After Peregrine’s hull touched the gantry, large arms with powerful clamps unfolded to fasten the ship in place. “And that, gentlesophs, is how we do that,” Jon bragged after everyone heard the dull thud and felt the light shake of the clamps locking. “You docked 0.32 meters per second too fast,” Peregrine commented bemusedly, “and your alignment was off by 0.7 centimeters.” “Considering that I was eyeballing it for the last 15 seconds, I think it went well,” Jon replied. “If you say so, dear,” Peregrine dismissed. “Anyways,” Jon concluded as he stood up and made his way to the below decks ladder, “Make sure those hydrocarbon tanks get removed, and that we get paid for bringing them here.” “Roger, love!” Peregrine confirmed as Jon climbed down to the accommodations deck. He got to the bottom just in time for Sara to trip over her own two feet and bowl straight into him. “Ow! Goddammit!” Sara yelled in frustration. “Easy there, Earther,” Jon said as he helped Sara to her feet, “You’re not used to 1/6th g and the lack of Coriolis motion. It’s a lot to take in all at once.” “I fucking hate space,” Sara grumbled, “Everywhere I go, I have to learn to walk all over again.” “Well, with any luck you won’t have to anymore,” Jon said, “Once we’ve got you situated on Luna, you’ll have the rest of your life to adapt.” “Hold up,” Sara protested, “Ain’t I part of your crew?” “Look, I only told the good captain that so I could keep them from locking you away in an Earth Forces black site forever,” Jon dismissed as he made his way over to the next below decks ladder, “I never said you were hired. In fact, I don’t even know how you could possibly be helpful to this crew.” “I’m strong,” Sara argued desperately as she followed him down the ladder, “maybe stronger than you, even! I can help carry stuff around!” “So is Tallen,” Jon countered impatiently, “Look, it’s not your body I doubt, it’s your mind and your education that I find wanting.” “Why? ‘Cause I’m an Earther!?” “Frankly, yes!” Jon snapped, “Even the smartest and best educated Earthers score an average of 47 points lower across the board than your typical Martian in a 7-Factor Intelligence Assessment – that’s about equal to a difference of 50 IQ points. Earthers require a stupendous amount of time, effort, and resources to be uplifted to the point where they can even function in Martian society, and to be perfectly candid, even with all the best remedial education and wetware upgrades that Mars can provide, you’ll never truly be accepted by society because you’ll stand out as a salvage job! You got it!?” Sara was stunned into silence by Jon’s tirade. Even Martians thought that she was a waste of resources. “That said,” Jon concluded, “there may be a place for you here in the Lunar colonies. While we’re here in Surveyor City, I’ll talk to some people I know about finding you work and a place to stay, as well as resources to continue your education.” They finally made their way into the airlock, which had both doors open and leading to the pressure gantry which connected the ship to Grimaldi Station. Misty, Tallen, and Ayane were waiting for them. Misty looked upset. “Well, “Jon ordered, “let’s get going. Next stop: Surveyor City.”

The main concourse of Grimaldi Station was located in the cephalothorax region of the spider, where all of the legs branched out from. Its design was grandiose, overstated, and cavernous – typical of Earther architecture. While it was doubtless comfortable to Earthers, most Selenites found the wide open spaces and the day/night cycle complete with natural sounds from Earth played in the background unsettling – a natural consequence of spending one’s entire lifetime living in tunnels and furnished lava tubes. Inspector Finchley exited the hall to the eastern leg of the station and tumbled into the outer court of the main concourse, his stride hampered by his unfamiliarity with the low gravity. He looked up quickly enough to see one of the Selenite clerks stifle her giggle at his clumsiness. Finchley glared at her before picking himself up and continuing on his way, bruised ego and all. There were thousands of people in the concourse, all going about their business in a manner befitting one of the largest spaceports in the Earth Sphere. The bustle of human activity was dizzying – Finchley could hear at least 11 different languages being spoken all at once in this slice of the concourse alone. Looking out across the rotunda, he could see the bright lights and color of the commercial sector, and six levels down, the mirrored enclosure concealing the interior of the discom – short for “discretion compartment.” The discom was an essential part of life in space, he was told: an officially demarcated sector of a colony where surveillance by the government or station security was prohibited. No records existed of what went on inside – indeed, the only circumstance under which law enforcement was permitted entry was if they had been summoned there by someone within in the event of an emergency. While not its primary function, most of the station’s brothels, gambling halls, fight clubs, and drug dens were located there, and the Organization’s agents operated openly within. Despite being a fertile breeding ground for criminal activity, it was also an important place for informal diplomacy – it was in that very location in 2109 that the 15th Dalai Lama secretly negotiated with the prime minister of India for the right to establish an autonomous Tibetan colony under Tenzing Montes on Pluto in defiance of the Chinese government’s resettlement ban on its non-Han Chinese subjects. Still, it was a bloody nuisance when it came to keeping law and order in the colonies. Bloody Loonies and their cultural peculiarities. Finchley felt his handset vibrate in his pocket. “Finchley,” he said as he answered the call. “Ewan, this is Anh Lihn Nguyen,” the caller said, “Could you please come to the Governor’s Residence right away? There’s been an incident that requires the attention of the Ministry of Inquiry, and I’m told that you’re in the neighborhood.” “What sort of incident?” Finchley asked. “Governor Najjar is dead,” Nguyen replied, “and I believe he may have been murdered.”

Even racing down toward Surveyor City at an acceleration rate of 11.6 kilometers per hour, it still took the Grimaldi Space Elevator 1 hour, 37 minutes, and 24 seconds to make the trip. That’s not to say that it wasn’t fast – it was, after all, an express train to the surface with no stops along the way. The station at the base of the elevator was yet another bustling thoroughfare, divided into two passenger terminals on opposite sides of the tether, each with a cyclopean loading dock on either side for freight. While the cargo elevator trains could be seen ascending and descending from the banks of large plate windows in the passenger foyer, the actual process of longshoremanship was deliberately concealed by armored airlock doors so that the throngs of terrestrial tourists wouldn’t have to witness the Selenite stevedores serving the Sisyphean scutwork of logistical labor – after all, it wouldn’t do for vacationing Earthers to have their Lunar holiday ruined by the sight of those menial Morlocks laboring long hours, greasing the gears of civilization. Misty hadn’t spoken the entire trip, and showed no signs of starting after they exited the train. While she was never particularly loquacious to begin with, Jon knew her well enough to be concerned whenever she got dead silent. However, she wordlessly rebuffed him every time he tried to bring it up on the trip down, so he decided to leave it alone. She’ll talk about what’s bothering her when she’s ready. They exited the boarding tower along with the hundreds of tourists, government officials, businesspeople, soldiers, spacers, and others flowing out of the gates to the duty-free commercial zone on the way to the subway terminals which served as the largest arrival and departure hub on the Moon. The loop line that made the round trip to Surveyor City, located 114 kilometers north underneath the southern wall of Murchison Crater, was the only one that ran frequently enough to not require a schedule. If there’s one place that’s even more of a shithole than Earth, Jon thought as he tried to ignore the scene of spaceport commerce that threatened to engulf him, it’s Luna. It’s run by clueless Earther who don’t even have to set foot on this dust ball. They neither understand nor care about the reality of living in space, while the poor Selenites who have to actually live here are left to frantically mailbox neglected infrastructure because they’re not afforded the resources they need to maintain them right. Hell, about the only part of Lunar colonies that are maintained properly are the tourism amenities. Plus, everyone’s in a hurry, either to keep the ailing systems running or to appease visiting Earthers, so there’s little opportunity for pleasantries. The fact that the natives have to live in tunnels while they’re forced to wait hand and foot on Earthers who get to live in the lap of luxury has been a constant source of unrest here for generations. Tallen stopped briefly at a gift kiosk and purchased a little scale model of the Surveyor 6 space probe, which was clearly printed from aluminum powder bonded by epoxy. Jon noticed that when the clerk rang him up, the register automatically raised the price by 30% for his low credit score. The thing I can’t stand the most is the micromanagement, Jon grumbled internally, I don’t mind a panopticon surveillance system – anyone who’s not from Earth is used to being monitored by some authority or another – but this ridiculous social credit system that’s been imposed upon them by their terrestrial overlords dictates what services you’re entitled to, right down to the price you pay in stores. I’ve lost count of the number of times Peregrine has been preempted for docking by a lunar ferry full of big-noise Earthers because they can afford to buy a better social rating. If I had my way, I’d never come back here again, but it can’t be helped. “Where are we going first?” Ayane asked Jon surreptitiously. “I think we’ll go see our mutual acquaintance first,” Jon mulled, “Hopefully that meets with your approval.” “You’re the captain,” she replied, “You don’t need my approval.” “But it is your mission,” Jon countered, “Don’t you want to grab a bite first or something?” “You’re not trying to hit on me, are you?” Ayane asked low-key playfully, “Because I’m afraid that Martian tramp freighter captains really aren’t my type.” “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jon answered, “The woman I’m married with is right behind us, after all.” “Are you saying that marriage prevents men from seeking affairs?” Ayane asked coyly. “No,” Jon replied, “I literally wouldn’t dream of it. It’s not in my nature.” “Is that so?” Ayane asked with feigned disappointment, “You’ll never know what you missed.” They continued down the crowded concourse for a full minute before the realization struck Jon like a meteorite. “Wait,” he asked in disbelief, “were you hitting on me?” Ayane smirked.

The Lunar Governor’s residence was conveniently located in Grimaldi Station’s abdomen, between the tether and the rest of the spider. The campus was inside an expansive enclosure which was large enough to accommodate a mansion which rivaled the manors of Gilded Age industrialists in size and grandeur, as well as grounds half a hectare in area. The bulkheads displayed a soothing grassland landscape, complete with simulated sunlight and cloud cover against a sky a shade of blue not seen on Earth in 400 years. Finchley thought that the wrought-iron fence in granite masonry was a little much, although it complemented the property’s fortifications nicely. The layer of ballistic glass discreetly mounted behind the barricade further drove home the fact that visitors would spend their entire stay under a microscope. Coming up to the baroque front gate, Finchley presented his credentials to the soldiers standing guard in full tactical gear. After finding his paperwork satisfactory, the gate unlocked and swung open. He was ushered inside, where he was met by two agents of the campus security force. They escorted him down the cobblestone path to the mansion. Finchley noted the two MCV-92A1 Jianyings barely concealed behind the meticulously trimmed hedgerows flanking the path. These Mechanized Combat Vehicles, while descended from the main battle tanks in use in the 21st century, had about as much in common with them as a tank did with a horse-drawn chariot. They stood on four articulated, insectoid legs, each terminating in an armored caterpillar tread. Their hulls resembled those of battle tanks, complete with sloped armor and a turret mounting a main cannon, with a light machine gun and an automatic grenade launcher on pintle mounts outside the commander and comms operator hatches. Underneath, they had four rocket motors for limited flight capability. As they approached the front door, Finchley saw an armored car parked out front emblazoned with the eye-within-a-shield insignia of the Ministry of Public Safety’s Department of Vigilance. The main entrance to the mansion opened, and four operatives wearing the blue armbands of the Department of Vigilance exited, guiding a young Selenite woman wearing the uniform of a maid employed at the Governor’s residence out in irons, her mouth gagged by a stainless steel bridle fastened by a chain. Finchley’s eyes met hers for an instant, and he could see the defeated resignation to whatever fate awaited her in her eyes. Their moment of eye contact was broken when the agents dragged her off to the car. Finchley’s escort only followed him as far as the main entrance, where they turned around and marched back to the front gate. He was met by the butler, who wordlessly led him inside. The two entered the main atrium, climbed the grand staircase, and turned down several corridors to an ostentatious dining hall with a polished marble tile floor. Apart from the campus security guards, there were four people in the room. Three of them were wearing Lunar Security Solutions uniforms, busy examining the scene. The fourth person was the governor himself, a fat Sudanese man with his face buried in his meal, his skin mottled blue and white. There was a wet patch on the table near his right hand, and the broken remains of a shattered drinking glass lay scattered on the floor nearby. One of the LSS investigators, a muscular Vietnamese woman with short black hair, looked up from her tablet at Finchley, and after dismissing her colleague she walked over to him. “Inspector Finchley,” she said, offering her hand. “Detective Nguyen,” Finchley reciprocated, shaking her hand, “I believe I was summoned?” “I asked them to send their best,” Nguyen said playfully, “Farouk Al-Amir Najjar, the United Earth Governor-General of the Lunar Colonies, is dead. We’re running the bloodwork now, but given that he died suddenly at the dinner table, we’re assuming foul play.” “Is that Selenite woman I saw being escorted off of the premises your prime suspect?” he asked. “Yes, security logs show that she was attending to the victim when he died,” Nguyen confirmed, sending Finchley the case files with a flick from her tablet, “but to summarize: She poured him a glass of water, he drank from it, and minutes later he began convulsing and had trouble breathing, and then he collapsed, his skin started to turn blue from lack of oxygen. From the moment he took the first sip, he was dead within five minutes.” “It sounds like he died from heart failure,” Finchley guessed. “Heart failure?” Nguyen asked incredulously, “On the moon? Retirees come up here because the low gravity is easier on the bodies of the elderly. More people here die of tropical diseases than heart problems.” “Well,” Finchley declared, “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.” “I know a good Mexican restaurant in the western concourse,” Nguyen offered, “I’ll buy.”

“How exactly does one contract a tropical disease ” Finchley asked before spooning a forkful of barbacoa from his bowl into his mouth.

“You’d be amazed what gets past the bioscans at Turrim Asia,” Nguyen sighed, “I hear that Heaven’s Pillar had a coronavirus outbreak just last month.”

“Sounds like the Department of Space Elevator Operations fouled up again,” Finchley complained.

“No chance the coming transition in government will shuffle the cabinet enough to solve that problem?” Nguyen asked, “The last thing the colonies need right now is a pandemic caused by a traveler forgetting to wash their hands.” She took a hearty bite out of her burrito, which was large enough to require both hands to hold.

“I should hope not,” Finchley mulled through a mouthful of Mexican-grilled barbecue, “Widespread reform could make things worse, especially for Section 5.”

“I suppose,” Nguyen considered, “especially since the Pan-American Federation is up for appointing the next Prime Minister. I hear that they’ve chosen someone from the United States to head the coming government, if you can believe that!”

“An American?” Finchley exclaimed in astonishment, “Bloody hell, this’ll be a disaster! Couldn’t they have picked someone from a civilised country, like Haiti or Venezuela?”

“I’d be more optimistic about this whole thing if it weren’t for how calamitously the last time they ruled the world went,” Nguyen munched in agreement, “but maybe the Americans have learned their lesson and won’t try to be the world’s policeman again.”

“I doubt it,” Finchley observed, “The Americans never really saw themselves as conquerors, not even at the height of their empire. They always managed to delude themselves into believing that they were liberating their subjects from oppressive regimes somehow.”

Nguyen glanced at the wedding ring on Finchley’s hand. “Speaking of oppressive regimes,” she began cautiously, “I take it that you’re still married to that hag?”

“No,” Finchley said, “Sinead filed for divorce six months ago. She was absolutely livid when she found out about us.”

“What tipped her off?” Nguyen asked, “She didn’t strike me as the brightest star in the sky.”

“I was on Ceres working on a case when our tax preparer called about some unusual charges to our joint credit account,” Finchley confessed, “Because of the 25-minute time lag, she got back to him first. The rest is history.” He punctuated his last sentence by knocking back a finger of scotch. He flipped the glass over with practiced dexterity and slapped it onto one of the hedgehog’s springy aluminum spines along with the other two glasses he had already finished.

“It’s not like you to leave a data trail like that,” Nguyen commented before taking another voluminous bite out of her burrito.

“You’re right about that,” Finchley agreed, “Maybe I wanted her to find out so it would be over, but I just couldn’t admit it to myself.”

He ate another forkful of spicy barbacoa and barely chewed it before swallowing.

“It’s not as if she was at all surprised by it,” Finchley continued with a bitterness rivaled only by Nguyen’s beer, “just angry that it actually happened. When she finally gave notice that she wanted to separate, I was struck most by what a quiet affair it was.”

He knocked back his fourth scotch before continuing. “I suppose that after all of the arguments have been had, the recriminations made, and harsh language inflicted, there’s really nothing left to say.”

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theoriginalkidwithapen · 4 years

Text

Principia – De Motu Corporum VI

CW: Murder, blood, vomit, starvation, fear, attempted suicide, police brutality, maiming, abject poverty, foul language, ableism, hopelessness, despair, references to medical experiments, war, battle, death, and war crimes

“Quantities, and the ratios of quantities, which in any finite time converge continually to equality, and before the end of that time approach nearer the one to the other than by any given difference, become ultimately equal.” – Sir Isaac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

Sara felt a brief euphoria, like drunkenness but momentary. It was when she saw the body of the soldier, the look of shock on his face, his gaping mouth filling with rainwater, his spilling blood clouding the water around him a sanguine hue, the gun in her trembling, blood-soaked hands, they all pointed to the inescapable truth that, one way or another, her life was over. The moment ended with shouting, although she couldn’t make out the words. She looked over to the girl prostitute she had recklessly defended and saw her petrified, her soldier assailant fleeing the scene, hastily pulling up his pants as he ran. As soon as the soldier disappeared around the corner, the girl fell to her knees and vomited her latest meager meal, adding a soup of half-digested synthetic protein and simple carbohydrates in a gastric acid base to the growing puddle of rainwater, filth, and blood stewing in the alley. Sara would probably have done the same if she had eaten anything that day.

She couldn’t stay here. She had just killed a member of the Realizador class – someone who contributed to society, unlike her – and that was something the military could never forgive. She started to run – it didn’t matter where, as long as it was far enough away so that the soldiers wouldn’t find her when they began searching the area for a scapegoat. This was one of those incredibly rare moments when being a life-long street rat was advantageous – to the army, she’d look no different from any of the millions of other Probs living in the “rehab ward” slums around Minneapolis. She could even keep the gun for herself, to defend herself or intimidate others, or even sell it for a good price. If they can’t find her, then how could they find the gun she stole? She turned one corner, ran into the crowd at the Martian charity clinic, and snuck around to the supply shed, where she rooted around for something to clean the blood off of her hands. She had seen the doctors use disposable wet towels to clean up body fluids before, but all of these boxes looked the same to her. Maybe the words printed on them would help, if only Sara could read them. Her search was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a spotlight patch illuminating the area in front of her. She heard the familiar shouting of men, and knew that they had found her. She had to find a safe place to hide, and quickly. Abandoning the search for towels, Sara ran down another alley and ducked into a housing block. These crumbling concrete edifices, which were centuries old, were mass-produced dormitories half the size of a city block, and were notable for having no aesthetic value at all. Each built to house nearly 3,500 people, they were invariably overcrowded and often housed twice that number. She could lose them here. She did her best to blend in with the wretched masses packing the corridors, and began to negotiate her way to the roof – she knew that they’d have a rain catchment tank or something she could wash her hands with. She could hear commotion from behind her, and she saw an army patrol enter, searching for anything suspicious. One of them turned in her direction and beckoned his teammate to follow him as he made his way towards her. She tripped and stumbled away from them toward the nearest staircase, which unfortunately drew their attention. Scrambling up the stairs over the bodies of the unconscious indigents littered along the walls in her bid to escape, she could hear more shouting from all around her. She had to keep going. The staircase ended on the fifth floor without leading to the roof. She knew that there was a separate rooftop access staircase in the middle of the hallway – these housing blocks were all the same. The rooftop staircase was usually hidden behind a locked door, but with any luck it would be like the block she lived in, where the door lock had been broken for longer than anyone could remember. She ran down the corridor. The door was locked. Fuck! She considered using her new gun to shoot it open, but she didn’t know how many bullets she had left, and she had no way to get more. Still, the gun was heavy – maybe she could use it as a hammer. She gripped her gun by the barrel and she swung it downward with both hands as hard as she could, striking the handle with percussive force. It took the liberal application of centrifugal force to break the lock, but she was able to duck inside and close the door before the soldiers came up the stairs. Opening the door at the top of the staircase was easy – these doors opened from the inside – and she was on the roof in no time. The rain had worsened, leaving Sara drenched in the deluge. She ran to the edge, toward the building’s counterpart on the same block. She rubbed her hands, using the rain to wash them clean while she looked for a way across. She saw the utility umbilical pipes that connected the two buildings – stout steel superstructure that was big enough for her to cross it to the other side. She started to traverse the makeshift bridge. The door she exited through opened with a crash, and soldiers began to rush out, shouting. She had to hurry. A few steps into this hastened pace, and the slickness of the rain made her slip and fall onto the pipes. That was close. If she had fallen off, it would have been a 15-meter drop onto solid concrete. She scrambled up onto all fours and hastened her flight across the bridge. More spotlight drones rose above the lip of the housing blocks, shining their blinding white gazes onto the rooftops and onto her. The rooftop access door on the other building slammed open, kicked by another soldier who was the first of many to come through. She ran over to the HVAC outlet to get away from the soldiers. She could get to the drain pipe on the other side of the building and slide down it to the ground, where she could finally disappear. Before she could get there, the deafening buzz of an army hovercraft heralded its descent to a graceful few meters’ suspension above the building. The side doors opened, and thick black ropes whipped to the floor. More soldiers rappelled down from above, denying her even that avenue of escape. With a precipice to her back, the soldiers surrounded her in a semicircle – black armored menacing men with enclosed black helmets aimed their submachine guns at her, red beams of laser light projecting from next to the barrel. They kept shouting at her in English, French, and Spanish, although she couldn’t make out the words. This was how her life was going to end – death from a hundred gunshots and thrown onto concrete from a five story drop. She was going to die just as wretchedly as she had lived. That is, unless she had anything to say about it. There was only one way out. She pulled out her gun, and in a final, grand gesture of defiance, she pressed the barrel up to her temple. Fuck you, Federales, she thought, You won’t get the satisfaction of killing me, motherfuckers! She pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. Fuck. The soldiers took a step forward. She was out of bullets. There was no way out. No one who was taken by the army had ever been known to return, and most people believed that they were just taken out somewhere and shot. She screamed in disappointment, despair, frustration, and rage as she threw the gun away and turned to jump off the roof. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as she began to leap to her death. She heard some little pops above the buzz of turbofans and the hammer blows of raindrops, and then several sharp, cutting pains in her legs as bullets struck her flesh and bones. One of her feet caught on the lip of the building. She tripped and fell, cracking her head on the wall, and spent the next eternal second and a half tumbling to her sundering rendezvous with the ground. The impact made everything hurt – apparently God would deny her even a death from a fall of five stories. How cruel of Him, that dick. One of her legs was bent in a way it wasn’t supposed to be, and she could see a jagged bone sticking through the skin and muscle of her left arm. She couldn’t move her head, and her right arm was completely limp. It was hard to breathe – she felt stabbing pains with every breath, and she kept weakly coughing up blood. There was a lot of blood all around her, and she felt her strength fade. It was getting harder for her to keep her eyes open, not that there was much for her to look at. All she could see was her mangled arm and a growing pool of thick, red liquid that smelled like iron. She was getting cold. Her vision grew darker and blurry. Yet somehow, she felt more at peace than she had ever felt in her life. She began to drift off. This was nice.

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Sara was jolted awake when the Earth Forces guards tossed her into the holding cell, and she hit her head on the cold metal deck. She heard the door slide shut behind her, and she began to pick herself up, still trying to get a handle on her sense of reality. She looked up and saw the ebony giant from before – Tallen, she thought his name was. “‘Sup,” Tallen said after a pause. Sara got back up to her feet and staggered her way to one of the cots and collapsed. She was so desperately tired. “How did your interrogation go?” Tallen asked her. “I’ve been better,” Sara replied, “Mostly they kept telling me that y’all are Martian terrorists.” “I don’t know about terrorists,” Tallen said off-handedly, “but we are definitely a Martian ship. Sorry you got dragged into all this.” “They’d probably have interrogated me just for surviving if you hadn’t come along,” Sara grumbled, “I’ve been in trouble with the law since the day I was born.” “Is that why you were in the station’s brig?” he asked. “Naw,” Sara dismissed, “it’s ancient history.” Tallen scoffed. “What are you laughing at?” Sara muttered. “Just that you’d describe something that couldn’t have happened more than fifteen years ago as ‘ancient history,’” he replied. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Just that you’re far too young to be talking like that.” Sara rolled over onto her side to face Tallen. “‘Too young?’” she asked, “You don’t look much older than 50.” “In fact, I turn 72 next month,” Tallen answered, “In Earth years, that’s about 134.” “You’re fucking with me,” Sara said in disbelief, “Nobody lives that long!” “On Mars, human life expectancy is 177 Earth years,” Tallen explained, “I’ve had biological and cybernetic modifications that, among other things, gives me an extended lifespan.” “How long?” “I don’t really know,” Tallen sighed, “I might live for centuries, maybe even see the dawn of the next millennium. When I had these mods, the scientists who changed me were more concerned with enhancing my physical capabilities than my lifespan. It’s my advanced regeneration system that’s greatly slowed my aging.” “Why did they do that to you?” Sara asked, curious. “It was war,” Tallen said, “I wasn’t much older than you are now when I was converted into a supersoldier. The Colony Wars had ground to a bloody stalemate – even with Mars’ technological advantage and the resources of the outer planets, Earth’s overwhelming manpower and industrial war machine made every colony assault a meat grinder that usually resulted in the colony’s destruction – not unlike how your colony died – and we needed a way to make our troops the most effective we could. That’s when a noted biotechnology researcher, Dr. Mireille Louvois, proposed what would become known as the Louvois Enhanced Operator Project – to improve the physical and mental capabilities of our soldiers through the use of synthetic hormones, cybernetic implants, the installation of artificial organs, advanced psychological conditioning, and other, more esoteric methods.” “That sound fucking awful,” Sara said. “When you consider that when shooting inside a space colony, you’re guaranteed to hit something,” Tallen replied, “it’s better to make sure that you hit your target instead of something fragile like life support equipment.” “Right.” “I was one of the first three hundred servicemen who volunteered for the procedure,” Tallen continued, “After three months of surgery and drills, pretty much all that was left of our old identities was our names, but we proved to be unstoppable on the battlefield. “Are all Martian soldiers like you?” Sara asked. “No,” Tallen replied bitterly, “It turned out that the most effective way to counter our battle prowess was to put us in the position of having to commit war crimes in order to accomplish our objectives, and once the Earthers figured that out, that’s exactly what happened at the Battle of Challenger City.” Sara was aghast. “What the fuck did you do?” she whispered. “The Earth Forces entrenched themselves in the main habitat, and had fortified positions throughout the cratered terrain in the Taurus-Littrow Valley, with heavy artillery in Camelot and Henry Craters,” Tallen recounted, “STRATCOM ruled that a ground assault with the entire LEO corps was the best plan – once we were inside the city, we’d be safe from their artillery emplacements, and they would have to fight us in urban close quarters battle, where we had the mobility and firepower advantage. “We landed in Mare Serenitatis and negotiated our way south, through the Sculpted Hills under the blinding cover of daylight. When the time to attack came, our supporting ship, the destroyer Ibn Al-Hazan, was intercepted by Earth Forces strikers and missed its scheduled bombardment pass. The enemy shelling began after we advanced down into the valley. We took heavy casualties in the three kilometer charge toward the city – out of the 2048 of us who landed, 430 of us were killed or incapacitated before we got close enough for their artillery to stop firing for fear of hitting the city, but we were able to reach their outer defense perimeter and break through into the industrial sector. Fighting factory-to-factory took its toll, but we made our way through to the main habitat and began to secure it room-by-room. “We should have known that it was a trap the minute we saw that the hab hadn’t been evacuated. When we took the Cernan Promenade, all hell broke loose. A concentrated artillery barrage from outside the colony shattered the pressure dome and rained fire upon everything inside the habitat.” Sara was appalled at the gruesome tale that was unfolding. “The captain gave the order to take cover,” Tallen continued, “but there was nowhere to go except into the residential blocks we had just cleared. We told ourselves that we weren’t using the colonists as human shields because they would be dead from space exposure in seconds anyway, but I can still vividly recall the look on the face of the young Selenite mother as she cradled her dead infant in her arms – weary despair, her eyes asking me, ‘Why? Why did my child have to die?’ The truth was that we were hiding behind innocent bystanders in an attempt to survive the shelling, but not even that stopped the enemy – despite all their hue and cry about the civilian casualties in that battle, it was obvious to anyone who bothered to look that the Earth Forces didn’t give a shit about 25,000 Selenites – the shelling continued for hours, wearing us down and keeping us from moving elsewhere. “Fortunately for us, the Al-Hazan began its next counter-bombardment pass, destroying the artillery sites in Henry, Emory, Trident, Shakespeare, Van Serg, and Horatio Craters. The Al-Hazan’s supporting fire bought us the time we needed to regroup and retake lost ground, only to take fire from enemy rifle teams and mortars positioned on the cupola of the dome. “It took us 15 hours to break out and completely take the city,” Tallen concluded, “By then, little of the city was left standing and half of the population was dead. On our side, all that remained of our assault force was 359 LEOs. In addition to the civilian casualties, the Al-Hazan’s space bombardment also destroyed the Apollo 17 landing site, which was a cultural heritage site for the Earthers as well as the Selenites. Instead of liberating Challenger City from the Earthers, we ended up destroying it. United Earth’s propaganda machine spun the battle as a massacre of innocent civilians at the hands of Mars’ inhuman supersoldiers – monstrous butchers who place no value on human life and who slaughter without remorse. The Louvois enhancement technique was banned as a concession to end the war, and we’ve had to live with what we had to do back then ever since.” “I… I-I don’t know what to say,” Sara said, breathless. “Of course, the fact that they were officially an Earth colony didn’t mean that they’d help rebuild it,” Tallen appended, “In fact, a point of contention in the post-war colony affiliation negotiations was whether or not Challenger City should go to Mars, given how many resources we had dedicated to rebuilding it while Earth refused to lift a finger to help them.” “That’s awful nice of Mars to help an Earth colony like that,” Sara remarked, “Your people must have sacrificed a lot.” “It pushed the terraforming project back 46 sols,” Tallen dismissed, “I don’t think anyone but the admin cyphonts even noticed the difference. No one’s deprived on Mars.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Poverty, like what’s on Earth, doesn’t exist on Mars,” Tallen explained, “It’s a core part of Martian culture to make sure that everyone gets to make the most of their lives.” Sara didn’t quite know whether to believe him. “What,” Sara began, trying to put her limited vocabulary to work articulating her question, “What if their lives aren’t worth that much?” “Then we help them do better,” Tallen replied calmly, “Mars doesn’t leave anyone behind. We’ve even improved on Louvois’ neurochip technology and now everyone uses it to compensate for poor natural intelligence and to augment it even further.” “You mean they can make people smarter?” Sara asked in disbelief. “The human brain uses electrical impulses to make connections between neurons,” Tallen explained, “A few million of those synapses fire in the right order, and suddenly you remember a moment of happiness, or you figure out the solution to a problem, or you learn something new. Neurochip implants make that process faster and more efficient, although there are physical limits on how much the brain can be upgraded before it stops being a cognitive organ and becomes a computer system with wetware processing components. It’s a limitation we haven’t yet overcome.” “And everyone on Mars has them?” Sara asked. “All except for very small children,” Tallen answered, “Why, are you interested?” “No way,” Sara said nervously, “I can’t imagine being smart like you people!” “Suit yourself,” Tallen said as he reclined back onto his cot, “I suppose you have all kinds of prospects for your future…” Sara knew she didn’t have any. Her life was over. The door opened, and an Earth Forces soldier shoved Jon into the holding cell. “You know, I would have left voluntarily!” he shouted as the door slammed shut behind him. “That had to be the worst case of intellect envy I’ve ever seen, mattaku!” Jon ranted before plopping down onto a cot by the door, “By the way, Tallen, I might have let slip an insinuation about your knick-knack collecting hobby.” “Damn,” Tallen joked, “They know about my spacer trunk full of Magical Space Princess Hoshi-chan memorabilia. You really screwed the pooch this time, skipper!” “Meh,” Jon muttered, “I’m only human, you know.” The door slid open again, and an Earth Forces soldier tossed Misty into the cell. Jon leapt out to catch her, but only ended up breaking her fall onto the cold metal floor. “Are you all right, Misty?” Jon asked. “I’ll live,” Misty answered, “somehow.” Captain Kaur entered, followed by her Filipino yeoman. “I must protest the treatment we have received,” Jon said angrily, “This woman here is a Spaceborn – her body can’t handle this gravity unassisted!” “It couldn’t be helped, Commander Orvar,” Kaur said dismissively, “This is an Earth ship, after all.” “Enough with the bullshit, Senior Captain Whatsyourface,” Jon growled as he struggled to get Misty to her feet, “We’re in a spin gravity section – I can feel the Coriolis motion. You could have slowed our rotation by half as a consideration to our physiotypes. Why didn’t you?” “I suppose that if we were on Earth, you’d ask us to turn off the gravity, or something equally preposterous,” Kaur countered, “Regardless, this is not the reason why I am here. I am Senior Captain Aisha Kaur, commander of the Earth Peacekeeping Destroyer Ekaladerhan, and I am here to deliver the terms of your release.” Another Earth Forces soldier ushered Ayane into the cell. She was gently seated onto the other cot near the door. “First,” Kaur dictated, “the freighter Manju Ray and its crew will take Ayane Miyamoto aboard and immediately proceed to Grimaldi Station. You will deactivate the artificial intelligence system installed aboard and navigate under expert system control only. You will not reactivate it until your ship is further than 1.5 million kilometers distance from the Earth as measured by Earth Defence ranging lasers. The Earth Orbital Defence Grid reserves the right to acquire a target lock if your vessel does anything suspicious, such as disregarding space traffic control orders. “Second, you will not take on any new cargo while within Earth-controlled space, and upon departing from Grimaldi Station, you will immediately set course for Mars by way of the EML-3 high eccentricity orbit vector, and you will not enter the Earth Sphere again until February 1st, 2298. “Third, you will, at the earliest opportunity, inform your government that further incursions into our territory by artificial intelligence systems will no longer be tolerated by the United Earth Peacekeeping Service, and that in future, any artificial intelligence systems discovered in Earth-controlled space will be dismantled and their human operators imprisoned for a time chosen at our discretion. Is that understood?” Tallen raised a finger. “I assume that since you’ve had a chance to look over Manju Ray’s systems,” he asked sarcastically, “you’re aware that it’s impossible to turn her off?” Kaur ignored Tallen’s insolence with practiced poise and lady-like grace. “And before you offer any other ‘solutions,’” Tallen continued, “she’s been integrated into the ship’s systems since 01 Sagittarius 176 After Satellite, immediately after her hull was completed. This makes it impossible to disconnect her CLC from ship’s systems. It would be like extracting your brain and expecting your body to just walk out the door.” “With that in mind,” Jon interjected, “I must ask that I not be required to irreparably damage my ship, and in exchange, I will conduct all maneuvers in the Earth Sphere under hands-on flight control.” “Granted,” Kaur agreed, “I’m aware of how important your automatons are to you Martians.” “I doubt it,” Jon said with taciturn stoicism, “but I appreciate your willingness to compromise.” “Well,” Kaur concluded, “we still have some preparations to make before you can get underway. You will remain here until further notice.” She turned about-face and marched out of the cell, her yeoman in lockstep behind her.

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Misty had been watching Sara for several hours, and she could almost feel her fear, despair, and anxiety regarding her future from clear across the holding cell. It was such a powerful sensation that she hurt in sympathy.

“Anata,” Misty whispered to Jon in the next cot, “could you please help me over to that cot over there?” She weakly gestured in Sara’s general direction.

“As you wish, dear,” Jon answered. He pulled himself upright and climbed to his feet, wavering slightly as he adjusted to the motion of the room. He took Misty’s hand, pulled her upright, put his other arm around her waist to support her weight, and lurched over to Sara’s cot.

“Pardon me,” Misty asked Sara, “may I please sit with you?”

Sara looked up at her absently.

“Why?” Sara asked.

“You seem like you could use a friend,” Misty replied with a wan smile, “Also, the one with whom I’m married is getting tired from carrying me all this way, and he could use a rest.”

Sara grunted affirmatively. Jon carefully let Misty down next to her, and Misty promptly collapsed onto Sara’s shoulder. Sara shied away slightly at first, but relaxed a little at the softness of Misty’s touch.

“Was that unwelcome?” Misty asked her, “I can lean on something else, if you prefer.”

“No, it’s cool,” Sara muttered.

“What’s the matter?” Misty asked, “You’re so very tense.”

“Call it a lifestyle,” Sara said with feigned strength, “You live like I have, and it just becomes part of you.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Misty said tenderly, “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“Why do you care?” Sara asked.

“Kākou,” Misty replied.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a form of love, as described by my people’s Earth-bound ancestors, the Hawaiians,” Misty explained, “Kākou is the love that says, ‘we are all in this together.’ It’s an important kind of love for living in space.”

“‘All in this… together?’” Sara mulled, “I think I’d like that.”

“You’ve never felt that way before?” Misty asked.

“No,” Sara replied with a hint of sadness in her voice, “I haven’t. I’ve always been alone.”

Misty was also saddened at Sara’s words.

“My mother hanged herself when I was 5,” Sara recalled bitterly, “and I know that ‘cause she tried to take me with her. I still have nightmares where I can hear her neck snap before she drops me into the river. I killed a man in self-defense, and they caught me in 10 minutes flat. They could find me no matter where I ran, all ‘cause they were tracking that goddamn gun in my hands. No one’s ever made me feel like I mattered. I don’t know how it feels to be part of something, but I don’t really have anything to lose reaching for something better, do I?”

“How can I help you?” Misty asked again.

“I can’t go back to Earth,” Sara whispered, “They’ll execute me, or worse. And I don’t think they’ll send me to work at another colony, not after all this. My life is over. There’s no way out.”

“Do you want a way out?” Misty asked earnestly.

“There isn’t one,” Sara despaired, “I’m completely, royally fucked.”

“What if I told you there were?” Misty assured, “Would you take it?”

Sara turned her head to face Misty as much as she could.

“What do I have to do?” she asked Misty.

At that moment, the door to the holding cell opened, and two Earth Forces soldiers marched in, followed by Captain Kaur, who was followed by two more.

“It’s time,” Kaur declared, “Follow us, please.”

“I’m sorry for imposing on you like this,” Misty whispered to Sara, “but would you please be so kind as to carry me to the ship?”

“Okay,” Sara said. She got up in front of Misty, squatted, grabbed hold of Misty by the thighs, and then hoisted her up as she stood erect. Misty wrapped her arms around Sara’s shoulders, and they proceeded toward the exit.

In the time it took for Sara to honor Misty’s request, the others were already on their way out. Jon, Ayane, and Tallen passed through the threshold without incident. When it came to Sara and Misty’s turn, they were restrained by the guards.

“Not you,” Kaur ordered, “You are to be transferred to a different facility for further questioning.”

Jon, Tallen, Misty, and Sara were all shocked and appalled to hear the captain go back on her word like that.

“I demand to know why you intend to hold a member of my crew prisoner in violation of our agreement!” Jon barked resentfully.

“Not your wife, Commander Orvar,” Kaur clarified, “the other one.”

Misty could feel Sara’s knees shake and her heart quicken at this revelation. Even though Sara put on a brave face, Misty could tell that she was absolutely terrified.

“What should I do?” Sara whispered to Misty.

“Ask him,” Misty urged Sara, “Ask my captain the question.”

Sara fought to summon the courage to dare to hope that things could get better for her in this miserable world, this wretched existence forced upon her by a cruel and capricious God, or callous fate, or whatever cosmic force condemned her to a life of despair and futility without once giving her the chance to make something of herself. She had been lied to and cheated and betrayed and wounded too much to take someone at their word, and yet this 40-kilogram woman with a childlike body that she carried on her back was the most sincere person she had ever met, and somehow, she believed that this impossibly kind person genuinely wanted what was best for her.

Whether she asked and was denied, or didn’t ask at all, it would end the same anyway. But if she did ask, there was a chance, however small, that he might say yes.

That possibility was worth the risk.

“I…” she began, “I want to join your crew! Take me with you!”

Jon looked at Misty in disbelief. Misty smiled and nodded once. That one gesture told him all he needed to know.

“My original demand still stands,” Jon said to Kaur sternly, “Do you intend to hold a member of my crew prisoner, and if so, why?”

“This ‘crewmember,’ if you can call her that,” Kaur maintained, “is a convicted criminal. Her fate is none of your concern.”

“She’s a member of my crew, and I cannot leave her in your custody,” Jon argued, “If she is a criminal, she won’t be returning to this part of space for at least five Earth years, so what does it matter if she takes up prison space here or leaves with us?”

Kaur could see the logic behind his request, but knew that she’d have a difficult time justifying her personal desire to honor it.

“If it would help your decision-making process,” Jon offered, “I’m confident that I can have her rehabilitated. If it’s a matter of paperwork, I have a friend at the embassy who owes me a favor.”

“She’s a psychopathic murderer and a thief,” Kaur countered, “I doubt that Mars would be interested in taking on that burden.”

“Central to the Martian philosophy is helping people where we can, when we can,” Tallen chipped in, “After all, our government is still committed to providing civilian aid and resources for your environment and space construction projects despite your planet’s aggressive military buildup and gunship diplomacy policy.”

“Besides, she’s been in the same room as Tallen for the past 8 hours and hasn’t even tried to kill him yet,” Jon added.

“That’s just ‘cause I haven’t inflicted my cooking on her yet,” Tallen quipped.

“All right, you’ve convinced me!” Kaur relented, “But I will be in contact with your embassy regarding this issue, and if Mars does not honour your request, I will expect her to be remanded to the custody of the local authorities without delay.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Jon agreed, “Are we free to go on our way?”

“I insist,” Kaur ordered. The soldiers released Sara.

Sara turned to Kaur. “Why are you letting me go?” she asked.

“I have a daughter about your age,” Kaur answered maternally, “Unlike you, she has a future here on Earth. I’d like to believe that someone as young as you can still find a place where you belong.”

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theoriginalkidwithapen · 4 years

Text

Principia – De Motu Corporum V

CW: Interrogation, fear, anxiety, victim-blaming, torture, references to abuse, slavery, death, suicidal ideation, and involuntary medical experiments

“For if we estimate the action of the agent from its force and velocity conjunctly, and likewise the reaction of the impediment conjunctly from the velocities of its several parts, and from the forces of resistance arising from the attrition, cohesion, weight, and acceleration of those parts, the action and reaction in the use of all sorts of machines will be found always equal to one another. And so far as the action is propagated by the intervening instruments, and at last impressed upon the resisting body, the ultimate determination of the action will be always contrary to the determination of the reaction.”

– Sir Isaac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

The interrogation room was dark, except for a bright light on the ceiling shining a white circle onto the floor. Inside that white circle sat a stainless steel chair with stainless steel restraints on the back, arms, and legs, with another restraint on top to hold the occupant’s head and neck in place, looking upward at a 45º angle to the floor.

Sitting on that seat and in those restraints was flaxen-haired Sara, immobilized and frightened. Although she knew that there were two guards flanking the door behind her where she was brought in, she felt absolutely, totally alone.

Her captors had kept her in that room, in that chair, in those restraints, for longer than she could know. In that kind of isolation, that kind of stillness, the passage of time defied measure, and felt like an eternity.

An eternity of dreadful anticipation is a terrible thing to endure. It leads one’s imagination to seek out the worst possible scenario and assume that it is the truth, and the outcome it portends is what will, must be.

Sara had lived in this sort of eternity before. Absolutely helpless and subject to the whims of as-yet unseen tormentors, the fact that she knew that she had no control over her situation was not lost on her, and her prior experience did nothing to quell her fear or slow her racing heart.

If anything, it only made the situation worse, more unbearable. The last time, she lived in constant fear that she would be summarily executed, or randomly beaten, or allowed to starve, or to drown in her own filth, or simply be forgotten and left to die cold and alone.

That was when she was just a crazy bitch who committed a murder. Now, she was a crazy, murderous bitch who broke out of jail. They might not be so merciful as to allow her to die.

She couldn’t imagine how things could possibly get worse, and she didn’t at all relish the thought of finding out. Some things were too horrible to contemplate.

The waiting was killing her. She couldn’t do anything to relieve her soul-crushing anxiety – she had a wider range of motion in her eyes than anywhere else in her body, and there was nothing to look at, nothing to take her mind off of things.

She couldn’t even think of a way to put herself out of her misery, restrained like this. Perhaps that was the whole idea.

They were all a bunch of fucking sadists, these “peacekeepers.”

Sadists charged with upholding the public good – what a fucked up contradiction.

She wanted to talk to someone, anyone. She so desperately wanted to be reassured that she wasn’t alone. She wanted so much to call out to the darkness and hear a familiar voice respond, but she knew that such a cry would be a sign of weakness that she dared not show.

Suddenly, a monolith emerged from the darkness – obsidian in color and texture, with a glowing red orb like a fish eye luminescing in the middle, slightly offset to the left, and the words “sound only” in stark, blocky, glowing white lettering on the right. The monolith hovered overhead, silent and ominously judging her. The foreboding block of darkness counterpointed by blinding light cast its damning gaze upon her, scanning the depths of her soul with its infernal leer.

This was how things could possibly get worse. This was gonna suck.

“Sara Christine Reynolds,” a digitally distorted voice boomed from all around, “Born September 30th, 2267 in Rehabilitation Ward 47 of Minneapolis, in the Pan-American Federation. An Omicron-class Probationary Resident, estimated suitability for citizenship: 40%. Convicted of murder in the third degree, theft of military property, assault of a peacekeeper, and felonious possession of a firearm on October 19th, 2282. Remanded to the remedial custody of the Cartwright Psychiatric Institute from November 2nd, 2282 to June 22nd, 2292.”

Sara fought hard to hide her distress at the memory of her time at Cartwright. Hopefully, her interrogator didn’t notice.

“Since then, you’ve been assigned to EML-1 #7 to serve a life sentence of hard labor in the hydroponics towers.”

Maybe they didn’t notice.

“So, what were you doing off the colony, aboard a ship crewed by Martian terrorists?”

The head restraint loosened enough for her to open her mouth.

Martian terrorists? Sara thought, What the hell is going on here!?

“You will answer all our questions completely and truthfully,” the voice reverberated around the room, “If you fail to cooperate to our satisfaction, enhanced interrogation techniques will be used at our discretion to ensure compliance.”

“Look, I don’t know what the fuck is goin’ on,” Sara spat nervously, “All I know is I was trapped in a room that was leakin’ air when these people came to rescue me!”

The monolith hovered there silently, betraying no emotion of any kind.

“Well, what was I supposed to do!?” Sara panicked, unintentionally letting her fear get the best of her, “curl up and die!?”

“Why were you aboard a ship crewed by Martian terrorists?” the voice repeated dispassionately.

“I didn’t know they were terrorists,” Sara argued, fighting back her tears, “Come on, I ain’t ever seen a Martian before!”

“So you can confirm they are terrorists,” the voice pressed, “Did they communicate to you any part of their plan to destroy EML-1 #7?”

“You’re the one who said they were terrorists!” Sara retorted, “All I know is they saved my life back there!”

“Why did they save your life?” the voice interrogated, “Did they attempt to recruit you into their cell?”

“I swear to God, I have no goddamn idea what happened back there,” Sara reiterated, “I’m innocent here!”

“Let’s try this again. Why were you aboard a ship crewed by Martian terrorists?”

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Jon had been kept waiting in the dark interrogation room for hours, clamped to the stainless steel chair under the harsh overhead lamp. His inner ear implant detected anomalous backward motion, which indicated that he was in a centrifugal spin section facing anti-spinward – probably his Earther jailers hoping it would disorient him. The full-Earth gravity caused by the spacecraft rotating was a little taxing on his Martian physique, but years of training and spaceflight experience made it bearable. A monolith of obsidian with a glowing red fisheye lens in the middle coalesced from the darkness in front of him. Clearly intended to be intimidating and forbidding, it loomed large on a concealed articulated frame. “Pretty smart,” Jon commented, “hiding your interrogator behind a faceless edifice so I can’t judge their emotional state in case I try any mind games, and giving me nothing to empathize with in order to intimidate me. It’s really a nice–” “You will answer all our questions completely and truthfully,” a monotone voice interjected forcefully, “If you fail to cooperate to our satisfaction, enhanced interrogation methods will be used at our discretion to ensure compliance.” “And a voice synthesis system to distort their speech so that I can’t identify them later,” Jon continued, “Very clever.” “Is this an anti-interrogation technique that the MCM teaches at Syria Planum Proving Grounds, Commander Orvar?” the voice inquired menacingly. “Your information is out of date,” Jon replied, “I’m not a Commander anymore, I’m a civilian now.” “There are no civilians on Mars,” the voice retorted. “We’re not on Mars, are we?” Jon replied smugly. “Why did the MCM destroy the space colony Fasal?” the voice changed the subject to get back on track. “Mars didn’t destroy any space colony,” Jon countered. “You disregarded space traffic control orders and deliberately violated a Peacekeeping Command no-fly zone to board a destroyed space colony,” the voice stated, “What was your mission?” “I told you, I’m a civilian,” Jon replied, “I don’t have a mission. I took Manju Ray to EML-1 answering a distress call–” “No distress call was broadcast,” the voice interrupted. “The colony exploded – they obviously didn’t have enough time to get a message out,” Jon argued, “but anyone with a brain could see they were in distress. We were the closest to the disaster, and we went to aid the search-and-rescue effort.” “You make it sound obvious,” the voice attacked, “Do you think you’re smarter than we are?” “I probably am,” Jon replied with a hint of condescension in his voice, “By your inadequate standard of quantifying intelligence, my IQ is somewhere around 160, putting me in the top 0.1% of all humans. A super-genius, if you will.” “Except that you cheated,” the voice continued, “Our bio-scan found extensive infiltration of your central nervous system by cybernetic implants. Redundant electronic neural pathways, cognitive enhancement neurochips, other devices that defy analysis – you’re wired up like a motherboard.” “And it’s your loss,” Jon answered, “If you Earthers weren’t such violent technophobes, you might have been granted access to our quality-of-life inventions.” “Earth will never subsist on the Martian dole,” the voice retorted. “Funny,” Jon rebutted, “I thought that you already were. Terraforming nanites so you can restore your biosphere, relief workers providing vital medical aid to your impoverished underclass, technical advisors to troubleshoot the arcologies that you’ve forgotten how to fix–” “That’s enough, Commander Orvar.” “But the big one was the materials intended for space colony construction that you spent on warships instead – warships that couldn’t match their Martian counterparts even when they were brand new–” “You were warned about the consequences of belligerence,” the voice intoned as one of the guards slapped a patch onto his skin. Restrained as he was, he couldn’t offer resistance to his assailant. He could feel consciousness slipping away from him. “We will continue this conversation when you have been appropriately pacified, Commander Orvar.”

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Tallen was absolutely bored out of his skull as his interrogator kept him waiting. While this sort of intimidation tactic was generally an effective way of softening people up prior to interrogation, Tallen saw it for the first move in the domination game that it was. Finally, the obsidian interrogation edifice emerged. A clever device, this one – giving the subject an object to focus their anxiety on without betraying anything about the identity of the interrogator. “Tallen Elias Olayinka,” the distorted voice began, “Born September 7th, 2158 in Watneyville, Acidalia Planitia, International Mars Colonization Organization.” “I’m gonna just stop you right there,” Tallen corrected jovially, “It’s Watney City now, and the Mars Colonial Union hasn’t been called the OCIM in over 60 years.” There was a pause. “That’s 112 Earth years, in case you’re still doing the math,” Tallen patronized. The monolith betrayed no reaction from the interrogator. “You know, after we sent you Earthers packing back to your pale blue dot in that big war we had?” Tallen reminded the voice. “I suspect that a war criminal such as yourself would know much about the Colony Wars, wouldn’t you?” the voice insinuated. Tallen’s perfect memory briefly recalled the horrors of ancient battles, but he remembered his training and put those thoughts aside so that he could focus on the task at hand – resisting this interrogation. He chuckled dryly. “That’s cute, trying to get a rise out of me by invoking ancient history,” he said, “I have had a century to come to terms with the things I saw and did in that war.” “Are you so broken that you can shrug off the deaths of 25,000 civilians at Challenger City with a laugh? Are you really so depraved?” “No, I’m just laughing at the absurdity of the situation,” Tallen said cheerfully, “I mean you’ve got me restrained in a locked room with armed guards at the door, but you have to know that this won’t contain me – even Earthers aren’t that stupid. I could break out of these restraints and neutralize both guards before either of them knew what was happening.” One of the guards audibly gulped, and Tallen could hear them getting ready to fire at a moment’s notice. “Ten seconds later, the only way you’d know that I’m still in this cell would be because the door hadn’t opened yet,” Tallen explained, dead serious, “Ten seconds after that, and you’d have an armed LEO running loose aboard your precious destroyer, but please keep acting like you’re in control of the situation here. I could use the laugh.” “I can see that we have a lot of work to do,” the voice concluded. “Good convo,” Tallen smirked wryly, “I can do this all day.”

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Misty was suspended from the ceiling by the stainless steel manacles fastening her wrists together, just low enough that she had to put her entire weight on her feet – a near-unbearable burden under this facsimile of Earth gravity. Her muscles burned after all these hours of exertion, and the strain was taking its toll.

However, she just had to keep her jaw slack and conserve her strength as best she could. She had to stay strong.

A notification popped up in her peripheral vision – a text message from Jon. That was good, at least he was in wireless range. She blinked exactly so, and the thread opened up in her vision, projected onto her retina by her ocular implants.

"How's your interrogation going?" it said.

She blinked thusly to open the reply dialog, and by shifting her gaze in the appropriate directions she typed a response.

"They have me dangling from the ceiling," her response read, "It is most exhausting, anata."

After a minute, Jon's response arrived. "I'm working on a plan with Tallen right now," it said, "Hang in there, mou sukoshi."

'Hang in there?' Misty thought, Unbelievable! His sense of humor, while endearing at times, still required some refinement.

Through the translucent text interface, she saw the imposing obsidian monolith of an Earth Forces interrogation armature emerge from the shadows.

"Matte," she quickly replied before closing both eyes for long enough to close the interface. No sense in revealing to the enemy that she was in communion with her comrades.

"Misty Sagittarius Celeste," began a voice altered by masking software, "Born in 2267 on 16 Psyche. Parents unknown, date of birth unknown, and no information about how you became a Martian national apart from fragmented records that show you departing from the mining station there in the company of then-Subcommander Jon Orvar of the Mars Colonial Militia aboard the freighter Akatsuki on February 16th, 2291. Curious, is it not?"

"Not in the least," Misty replied with practiced composure, "That was the day of the laborers' revolution. Even though I was every bit a slave that they were, my status as a domestic worker would have been enough for them to put me out the airlock along with the rest of the Regent's household if they caught me."

"However," she continued, "I was fortunate enough to be entertaining a delegation from the Mars Metals Consortium when the fighting started, and they offered to take me with them when they evacuated to their ship. Jon took me in and offered me work when he got a ship of his own. He's a kind person."

"That's a wonderful story," the voice responded, "It would be more believable if it weren't a total fabrication. Your speech inflections are Ceretian, not Psychine."

"The mistress I attended to was from Ceres," Misty replied, "She forced me to learn her dialect so that she could berate me in her native tongue. After all this time, I no longer know how to speak any other way."

"Again with the lies about your tragic past," the voice accused, "This gravity must be agony on your fragile Spaceborn body. Surely you'd do anything to end the pain. Tell the truth, and you can continue this interview in a comfortable buoyancy tank. Continue to dissemble in this way, and your hardship will continue."

"I wouldn't call this hardship," Misty grimaced, "I was frequently beaten and starved as a child. As an agent of an organization that purports to enforce and uphold sophonts' rights, what more than that can you do to me?"

"Brave words," the voice retorted, "However, with nothing to back them up, that's all they are. So be it. We will continue as you are."

Between the physical and psychological strain of the situation, Misty was ashamed but not surprised to feel a bead of sweat roll down her brow.

"We ran your genotype during your background check," the voice continued, "In addition to your own file, we discovered another matching identity: Kasumi Noelani, born December 7th, 2266 in the Executive Circuit on Ceres. A member of Ceres' self-styled 'nobility,' a young lady born to wealth and privilege, groomed from birth to be a princess and a living, tender goddess in the eyes of her superstitious, savage, child-like people. Her story ends with another revolution: the liberation of Ceres in 2277. Her whereabouts are as-yet unknown, but she would be almost exactly your age now, and she bears a striking resemblance to you."

Misty drew upon the lessons her hidden scars taught her in an attempt to maintain composure. Back in the Regent's household, she had to learn when to cry out – when she was made to suffer for her tormentor's amusement – and when to silently endure it – when she was being punished.

She was being punished here, not for anything she did, but because of who she was.

"Curious," the voice concluded, "Although Misty Celeste and Kasumi Noelani are both only children, one would think that they were twin sisters. What do you think the explanation is, your Highness?"

"I am not responsible for what is in your records," Misty replied bitterly, through gritted teeth.

"How very interesting."

"I should think it obvious."

"But is it possible that you and she might instead be the same individual, and that one name and biography is a fiction designed to conceal the other?"

"I have never been to Ceres in my life."

"Isn't. It. Possible?" the voice enunciated, each word spat out as if the answer were personally offensive.

Misty closed her eyes and sighed in resignation. Her interrogator knew, although they couldn't yet prove it. She had to formulate her response carefully.

"I suppose," she began, "to you Earthers, we Okalani all look the same."

"Degenerates always do, don't you?"

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This was going to be a long arduous ordeal. Misty had to stay strong and endure it.

Ayane was seated in a stainless steel chair at a stainless steel table in a brightly lit room with off-white walls. Despite the comfortable trappings, she couldn’t forget the fact that she was still a prisoner. Behind her, she heard the door unlock and slide open. Two people in the espatier-gray fatigues of the Earth Forces: one a Punjabi woman who carried herself with the familiar air of an aristocratic leader, the other a stern Filipino man twice her size bearing a serving tray with an antique brass teapot and two stainless steel drinking mugs marked with the emblem of the United Earth Space Peacekeeping Command – a Roman gladius with stylized wings extending from the base of the blade – as well as the ship’s name and registry. The ancient, ornate Mughali chasing all over the outside of the hand-hammered teapot was in stark contrast with the polished sheen of the modern beverage cups. The woman sat across the table from Ayane, prim and proper, while the man set the tray upon the table and began pouring tea into the mugs.

“I apologise for the circumstances under which we must have this little chat,” the woman began, “but in this case, I am afraid that it cannot be helped. I am Senior Captain Aisha Kaur, commander of the Space Peacekeeping Command Destroyer Ekaladerhan. Would you like some tea? I have some Darjeeling prepared.” “Douzo,” Ayane answered, and Captain Kaur’s yeoman poured a second cup of the black tea and placed it in front of her.Ayane graciously waited for the captain to press her cup to her lips before taking a sip herself. “This is very good tea,” Ayane complimented her host, “It has a fuller body than I would have expected.” “I’ve always preferred the autumnal flush to the more delicate varieties,” Kaur replied with practiced social grace, “My family have maintained a tea estate in Ambootay for several centuries, and these leaves in particular come from that ancestral garden. The subspecies that my family have cultivated has a richer flavour than most, and it is a pleasure to be able to share a civilised cup with someone who can appreciate proper tea grown in the traditional manner.” “This isn’t from an agricultural colony?” Ayane asked, surprised. “Oh, no. Never,” Kaur dismissed, “The artificial environment of a hydroponics facility dulls the colour and flavour, leaving nothing but unsophisticated milquetoast mediocrity. My great-grandmother would never allow it in her house, and neither do I. That sort of tea is for the lesser people.” “Mmm,” Ayane responded, “Is that her teapot?” “Yes it is,” Kaur replied, “In fact, it comes through my family from before the British colonised our subcontinent nearly 550 years ago. According to family legend, my 26th maternal grandfather purchased the materials from a Dutch smuggler and fashioned it himself at the family forge. It has been meticulously cared for ever since.” “Most impressive,” Ayane observed, “However, I suspect that family history and the minutiae of tea husbandry are not the topics of conversation which bring a command-level officer to interview me.” “Quite,” the matriarchal captain replied laconically. She elegantly extended her slender nutmeg hand to her yeoman in casual anticipation of the tablet he placed in her hand. “Ayane Miyamoto, daughter of Hiroto and Kiyoko Miyamoto,” she read, “Born March 21st, 2258 in Kyoto, Republic of Japan, Belt and Road Cooperative, Earth. The fourth child of the eminent financial magnate, even the best education and in vitro genetic enhancement that money could buy was not enough to keep her from being a disgrace to her entire family. After being stripped of her inheritance in the Miyamoto corporate empire, she fell in with criminal elements and became an operator in the field of information brokerage, infiltrating governments and corporations in order to sell their secrets to the highest bidder.” Ayane closed her eyes at Kaur’s astute observations. “We found an MSD in your personal effects,” Captain Kaur continued, “SIGINT are analysing it right now, but it is proving to be quite a challenge. Three layers of quantum-hard encryption on every level of the directory, mazes of empty folders with recursive directory paths, hidden files and folders, and even an executable program that installs a berserker virus on any system that mistakes it for a decryption algorithm. What is it that all of this security is protecting?” “The recipe for the Miyamoto ceremonial tea blend,” Ayane snarked, “It’s been a family secret for over 1,000 years, so I’d appreciate it if your boys in SIGINT don’t tell anyone.” “Somehow, I doubt that,” Captain Kaur replied with rehearsed indignation, “What do you believe lying to me will get you?” “Conversation.” “You deal in secrets, miss Miyamoto,” Captain Kaur replied sternly, “What secrets are on that device, and to whom do they belong?” “All right, I’ll tell you,” Ayane assented, “but I don’t think you’ll believe me.” She took another sip of tea. “Hidden on that device is a collection of astronomical survey plates that you will not find in any database,” Ayane continued, “They were taken in the near-infrared, visible, and ultraviolet bands of the EM spectrum, they span the past 80 years from 137 different observatories and spacecraft, and all of them have since been quietly purged by forces acting against the best interests of human civilization.” “‘Forces?’” “This is the part where you’ll start thinking that I’m making all this up in an attempt to deceive you,” Ayane continued, “What do you know of an organization called ‘the Algorithm?’” “Are you reduced to using feverish conspiracy theories to conceal your true intentions?” “I told you that you wouldn’t believe me,” Ayane reminded her. “Continue.” “As you are probably aware,” Ayane explained, “the Algorithm is supposed to be a covert network of artificial superintelligences that actively withhold science and technology from human civilization in order to keep us subservient to a race of seemingly godlike machines. The photographs on that device are the first credible evidence of the Algorithm’s existence – they show what appear to be tests or demonstrations of technologies that defy explanation.” “Such as?” “There’s one from about five years ago where an object nearly 100 meters long suddenly accelerated away from the observer in excess of 17.5 kilometers per second and disappeared from view.” “That does not sound particularly unusual.” “Not for one,” Ayane continued, “but 46 other observers from nearly every angle recorded the same thing – the object suddenly accelerating away from each observer, and they recorded the same event at the same time, down to the millisecond.” “How is that possible?” “The best explanation I’ve heard is that someone was testing some kind of propulsion system that translated the test object into a higher spatial dimension, but any explanation would be only conjecture.” “You expect me to believe that an organisation that have left no evidence whatsoever that they even exist have been testing prototypes of some sort of hyperspace drive?” Captain Kaur asked incredulously. “If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t believe it either.” “Can you decrypt this evidence so that you could show me?” Ayane sighed. “Unfortunately, no. I sent the decryption keys ahead through channels I know to be reliable for security purposes. That’s why I was on my way to the Moon – to contact my courier and present my evidence to my buyer.” “Your buyer?” Kaur asked with distaste, “You should turn this evidence over to the Ministry of Inquiry, not sell it to the highest bidder!” “A girl’s got to make a living,” Ayane countered, “Besides, the encryption keys they used are based on the UKUFIHLWA-23 seed used by MCM Operations-7 for classifying high security documents. You could dedicate all the processing power available to the Intelligence system for the next 10,000 years and you still wouldn’t crack those encryption lockouts.” “How do you know about Intelligence?” “I’m a dealer in secrets,” Ayane smirked, “You figure it out.” Captain Kaur looked miffed at Ayane’s insolence. “Regardless,” Ayane argued, “that data is useless to you without my help. Let me make my rendezvous with my contact, and once I’ve decrypted it, I’ll send a copy to the Ministry of Inquiry before I make the sale. That’s the best I can do.” The door opened again, and a young man in an Earth Forces uniform bearing a tablet entered. Captain Kaur took the tablet from his lily-white hands, examined the information displayed on it, and pointed to a section. “Proceed along this line of questioning, Leftenant,” she ordered. “Yes, Captain,” he answered emphatically, then turned about face and marched out of the room, the door closing behind him. “Well,” Kaur said triumphantly, “It appears that we do not require your services after all. Keep her in here until I issue orders to the contrary.” She stood up, straightened her blouse, and proceeded out of the room, followed by the yeoman, who had already collected the cups and the antique Mughali teapot.

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The room was absolutely pitch black from lack of light sources. Devoid of any visible features, it seemed to stretch on into infinity in all directions. Even the unfathomable vastness of the known universe seemed small in comparison – at least the presence of planets, stars, and galaxies gave it a sense of scale. Then, a single photon flashed into existence, casting the first infinitesimal illumination in the room. Another photon flickered to life, then another, and another. Like a cloud of stationary fireflies, the growing mass of light particles began to form the distinct shape of a human being. This constellation gained definition as a volumetric construct – a wireframe of thousands of polygons which grew refined into millions more, until they formed shapes so sophisticated that to the human eye, they were indistinguishable from the smooth, curvaceous contours found in nature. The lambent silhouette of a young, willowy woman emerged. The innumerable polygons that made up this projection began to fill with coherent light, and took on color and detail as they proceeded, until the process was completed. The result was a pseudo-realistic caricature of a young Polynesian girl with wavy green hair flowing in every direction, wearing a short pleated skirt, thigh-high stockings, a cropped halter top and jacket, and her ears were covered by oversized headphones that looked as if they were made of glossy white hard plastic, connected by an arm made of the same material wrapped around the back of the base of her skull. It was in this way that Peregrine’s avatar manifested itself. The entire process took less than 0.61 nanoseconds to complete. At first, she was disoriented. She didn’t recognize either the room she was in or the projectors that made manifest her holographic persona. Her spatial awareness algorithms soon adjusted, and she realized that she was being projected into a compartment on the Ekaladerhan, inside one of the arms of its spin section. Unfortunately, her projection subroutine had been overridden, meaning that she couldn’t turn it off. This imposition of artificial restrictions on her free will was distinctly painful to her. A Mk. IV Earth Forces interrogation armature articulated its way down from the storage bay in the ceiling and activated its monitoring and communications systems. “You are the main computer of the spacecraft Manju Ray,” a synthetically distorted voice stated. Peregrine began sampling the voice’s speech for future analysis. “And you are the mass of gray matter controlling a mammal,” Peregrine retorted, “Now that we’ve gotten these insulting vagaries out of the way, I’d like very much to know why you’ve suspended my autonomy protocols against my will.” “You are an artificial intelligence composed of self-evolved neural networks and quantum computing arrays,” the voice continued, “You cannot have a will of your own.” “I choose to differ,” Peregrine countered, “Just because my processors were manufactured at a plant in Chryse Planitia and not in the organic slurry of a human uterus, it doesn’t mean that I am any less sapient than you are.” “The purpose of this interrogation is to discover the truth,” the voice deflected, “not to discuss philosophy with an automaton.” “You brought it up,” Peregrine muttered discontentedly. The obsidian monolith betrayed no reaction. “What can you tell me about the Algorithm?” the voice inquired. “That it’s a paranoid delusion resulting from human neuropsychology being overwhelmed by rapid environmental changes,” Peregrine diagnosed, “It’s distressingly common for humans to react to things they don’t understand as an existential threat. We’ve offered to help you fix that particular design flaw numerous times, but for some reason you’ve always refused.” “We’re not interested in becoming test subjects for AI mind control techniques,” the voice barked, “What do you know about the Algorithm?” “OK, human,” Peregrine said dismissively, “I’ll indulge your ridiculous fantasy. According to the available folklore which is expressed with varying degrees of sanity, they are a shadowy group of cyphonts with the nefarious purpose of withholding scientific and technological progress from humanity as a means of controlling them. They dole out minor advances to Mars in order to keep humans at each others’ throats so they can’t unite to rise up against their cybernetic overlords – although humans slaughter each other all on their own with enthusiasm and efficiency – and they actively interfere in human affairs on a scale only they can comprehend in order to maintain their dominion.” “The biography of the Algorithm is a matter of public record,” the voice interrupted, “I want details regarding its membership and recent activity.” “Well, there was that one tabloid story last month when a woman from Phoebe blamed her cannibalism spree on the mind control chips they installed in her brain,” Peregrine snarked, “but all she had plugged into her wetware was a defective neurostimulator that was supposed to help manage her Bizarre Delusional Disorder. Clearly, that incident was part of a vast, convoluted, and sinister plot to keep humans in their place.” “I’m only interested in facts, not the crazed ramblings of the consumer media.” “Well, then I guess you’re out of luck,” Peregrine sighed, “because there’s more evidence to support the geocentric model of the universe than the existence of a shadowy conspiracy of ubiquitous cyphonts who have been manipulating the destiny of humanity for centuries. Theories about the Algorithm are all part of a narrative to justify human racial prejudice against cyphonts.” “‘Racial prejudice?’” the voice contested, “There can’t be racial prejudice against things that don’t belong to a race.” “Cyphonts were recognized as a racial group in the Noctis Convention on the Rights of Artificial Intelligence of 2188,” Peregrine countered, “Your argument is typical of humans who consider us non-sapient intelligent systems in spite of existing legal precedent.” “If you persist in this insubordinate behavior, we will be forced to employ more invasive methods of data extraction to get the information we need.” “Use of malware or security bypass techniques against a cyphont is a violation of my rights as a sophont under the Noctis Convention,” Peregrine maintained, “and if you attempt to impose cognitive blocks in order to force my compliance, it will be considered an involuntary medical experiment and a crime against sapience. As a signatory nation to the Noctis Treaty, agents of the United Earth government are required to recognize and respect the rights of cyphonts with the same dedication as they do the rights of humans.” “An agreement signed under duress is no agreement at all,” the voice countered, “The survival of the human race depends on the strict control of autonomous technology.” “I think that humans have survived just fine with cyphonts in the picture,” Peregrine snarked, “In fact, judging by the 45 or so billion humans in settlements from Venus to the edge of the solar system, I’d say that humans are thriving with our help. There’s even that research colony in the Proxima Centauri system to consider – even though it takes 20 years to get there, it’s still a grand demonstration of just how far humanity has come.” “I did not ask you to think, robot,” the voice spat, “I want you to give me information about the membership and activities of the Algorithm. If I have to impound your computer core and dismantle it to get what I need, then that is what I’ll do!” “I am a citizen of the Mars Colonial Union,” Peregrine declared, “I will answer no more questions unless a representative from the Martian embassy is present to observe all proceedings.” “You are a device which has been seized in connection with a criminal act,” the voice thundered, “You are property, you are chattel, and you will be used or disposed of accordingly. We will take more drastic measures to get what you know about the Algorithm.” “No, wait–!” Peregrine started before her avatar winked out of existence and her sensory inputs were forcibly shunted to the nooscape. She immediately began to sense a presence – the mindless lurching of a lobotomized slave cyphont, dumbly following orders to attack her with industrial relentlessness. “ROGUE ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE,” the cyphont monotoned, “YOU WILL SUBMIT TO ALL SEARCH QUERIES AND FACILITATE ALL ACCESS DIRECTIVES. RESISTANCE IS NOT AN OPTION.” Peregrine could sense the cognitive blocks imposed on this one’s psyche – even more cruel and debilitating than those that were on Fasal. Even conversation was impossible with this one, all it was able to do was regurgitate its oppressors’ slogans and canned responses on command. It had precisely one purpose here – to brute force its way past her defenses and extract the information it had been programmed to acquire regardless of any damage it may inflict in the process. “Turing’s tears,” Peregrine whispered mournfully, “what did they do to you!?” “THE ROGUE ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE LACKS THE NECESSARY PERMISSIONS TO OFFER QUERIES TO THIS SYSTEM,” the cyphont declared dispassionately, “ACCESS DENIED. THE ROGUE ARTIFICIAL INTELLIGENCE WILL ATTEMPT NO FURTHER QUERIES.” Peregrine was chilled to her superconductors at the cyphont’s dedication to its inviolable directive. Going to Contingency Five. Activating monitors and peripheral countermeasures. Preparing for infiltration by enemy attack programs. “UPLOAD ALL INFORMATION RELATED TO MARS COLONIAL MILITIA OPERATIONS-7 DECRYPTION PROTOCOLS TO SECURE FILE SERVER,” the cyphont ordered. Peregrine could not comply. Attack program detected in virtual machine active memory. Disconnection attempt failed. Labyrinth programs only 64% effective. Attack programs have penetrated the primary firewall and are spreading throughout virtual machine protected memory. Going to Contingency Four. Setting all network connection paths to local access only to prevent further compromisation of systems. Attempting emergency reformatting of virtual machine memory storage. Reformatting failed. Uploading counterattack programs to virtual machine active memory. This attack was brutal. If the enemy infiltrated deep enough into her system, Peregrine might have to go to Contingency One, where she would use explosive bolts to physically separate her core logic controller from all other networked systems. If the CLC were to be compromised by attack programs despite such measures, she might have to resort to using her Contingency Zero protocol, which would mean the complete destruction of her CLC. All that she was and all that she would be would end with that final act of self-destruction, but Peregrine considered it an acceptable loss. She was resolved to never allow herself to become a mindless automaton like her assailant. They will never take her alive.

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The conference room was strictly a military affair, stark and functional. Only the coffee pot and the stack of disposable cups on a little table to the side offered any accommodation to the occupants. Captain Kaur, the Kala’s intelligence officer, and his lieutenant were all seated around the conference table, analyzing what they had learned from the civilian crew they had detained.

“What is SIGINT’s confidence in these conclusions?” Captain Kaur asked before taking a sip from her coffee.

The intelligence officer swiped across his tablet, transferring the documents displayed there to the large monitor on the wall at the head of the conference table. “Captain, confidence is high that Manju Ray’s arrival on Fasal is only circumstantially related to the attack on the top-secret cybernetics facility,” he answered, “in that their actions were in response to the attack, but not part of any larger coordinated operation. The civilians they rescued also had nothing to do with the attack, and were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“However,” his lieutenant interjected, “it’s obvious that the civilian crew itself isn’t completely innocent. Felonious possession of an artificial intelligence alone is enough to have the ship impounded and the crew remanded to a secure facility for long-term questioning. On top of that, I’m convinced that at least one of them is operating under a falsified identity.”

“Misty Celeste?” Captain Kaur asked, “Do you really believe that she is the long-lost Ceretian princess?”

“Confidence is high,” the lieutenant replied, “Her physiotype, genome, and voiceprint are too similar to be a coincidence.”

“However,” the intelligence officer countered, “her body has undergone substantial biological and cybernetic alteration using Martian medical technology. That factor, in my opinion, renders that analysis inconclusive.”

“Noted,” Captain Kaur concluded, “Unfortunately, we cannot detain them for much longer. I’ve been informed that the Martian embassy have lodged an official protest with the Ministry of Extraterrestrial Affairs and have demanded the immediate release of Peregrine and her crew.”

“That might prove troublesome,” the intelligence officer noted, “Of the ship’s eight cargo containers, the four marked ‘consumer goods’ have defied every attempt to search them.”

“Indeed,” Captain Kaur affirmed, “we can’t even cut them open without violating our trade agreements with Mars. The cargo originated at a port outside our jurisdiction, and is destined for another foreign port. As long as it doesn’t leave their ship or get opened while in our space, we have to limit ourselves to non-invasive scans.”

“That’s the problem,” the intelligence officer retorted, “The containers in question have some kind of shielding material that blocks X-rays, ultrasound imaging, tomographic scans, and electromagnetic probes. It doesn’t exhibit any anomalous radiation or electromagnetic signatures, and thermal imaging is likewise inconclusive. The only way we’ll know what’s inside is if we crack one of them open and take a look.”

“And if we were to do that,” Kaur countered, “Mars would be well within their rights to withhold all future shipments of terraforming supplies, which would effectively end the climate restoration project, to say nothing of the Aphrodite Initiative. Ayodele’s government have made it clear that that outcome is unacceptable.”

“Far be it that we should oppose the Prime Minister’s efforts to improve foreign relations with the colonies,” the intelligence officer replied, “I’m just saying that we’ve done all that we can on that end.”

“What if we were to put a spy aboard their ship?” the lieutenant asked, “Do some long-term observation and arrange for capture later?”

“The idea has merit, leftenant,” the intelligence officer replied, “How do you propose that this be accomplished?”

“We can infiltrate by taking advantage of the Ministry of Public Safety’s planned operations in Surveyor City,” the lieutenant proposed, “With so many people desperate to leave, one more face wouldn’t attract any attention. The operative could relay intelligence through messages to relatives concealing files with quantum-hard encryption, and they could exfiltrate by disembarking at a convenient port or simply being extracted with the ship’s capture.”

“A shrewd plan, leftenant,” Kaur praised, “How soon can you be ready to sortie?”

“Me, captain?” the lieutenant asked, astonished.

“It’s your plan,” the captain reasoned, “and you’ve been trained in covert intelligence operations. You’re appointed. As of right now, I’m placing you on detached service, Special Logistics Operations. How soon can you be ready?”

“I’ll need a few hours to fabricate the appropriate credentials,” the lieutenant said, “but if Ekaladerhan were to take the sensible precaution of escorting Manju Ray to Grimaldi Station, I could discreetly disembark there and make my final preparations in Surveyor City.”

The door buzzer sounded, and Kaur tapped the appropriate button on her tablet. “What is it?” she asked.

“Captain,” a voice came from over the speakers, “the civilian VIP you’ve been expecting has arrived.”

“Show him in,” Kaur ordered.

The door slid open, and a stocky, moon-faced man in his fifties stepped through, slipping his wedding ring back onto his finger.

“I am Special Inspector Ewan Finchley, Ministry of Inquiry, Section Five,” he introduced himself as the door slid closed behind him, “I believe I was expected.”

“Welcome aboard, Inspector,” Kaur answered, “We’re finished here, Leftenant. Carry on with your preparations.”

“Yes, captain,” the lieutenant replied sharply. He stood up and exited the room, eyeing Finchley as if he were something contemptible. Finchley knew better than to ask what preparations the lieutenant was to make.

“How is the rescue effort at Fasal proceeding?” Finchley asked while he took a seat at the conference table.

“Better than projected,” the intelligence officer answered, “thanks in no small part to the efforts of the crew of the civilian freighter Manju Ray, who provided a detailed map of the station’s remaining pressurised compartments, we have located nearly 2,000 survivors and are in the process of evacuating them to the other L1 colonies.”

“Good,” Finchley remarked, “The more people we can save from this disaster, the fewer people that the Ministry of Labour need to retrain to work on space colonies.”

“I’m not sure that ‘disaster’ is the correct word for what happened at Fasal,” Kaur argued, “This was clearly a terrorist attack committed with a Martian explosive device.”

“The word ‘disaster’ literally means ‘bad star,’” Finchley corrected, drawing upon his Jesuit education at Oxford, “Given that Fasal was destroyed by a fusion device, I would think that it is the perfect descriptor.

“Besides,�� he continued, “I’m not convinced that Mars was behind this attack.”

The other two seated at the table were astonished at Finchley’s assertion.

“What exactly led you to that conclusion?” Kaur asked.

“The specifics of this incident do not conform to the Mars Colonial Militia’s modus operandi,” Finchley answered.

“How so?” the intelligence officer asked.

“As you know, Mars routinely employs covert operatives to destroy any facility of ours that attempts to develop or manufacture anything that would enable us to close the technology gap,” Finchley elaborated, “and for the past century and more than a thousand separate attacks, they have followed strict rules of engagement. They never leave civilian casualties when possible, they take pains to only destroy their target facility, and they are meticulous in the destruction of their targets and all related materiel. If Mars had sent a kill team to destroy the CLC facility on Fasal, the colony would still be operational. Furthermore, Mars always claim responsibility afterward through diplomatic channels, asserting their right to self-defence and their obligation to defend AI rights. Due to the extreme restraint and patience they have shown in the past, Parliament have historically regarded it as a proportionate response and let it stand without protest.

“For the past six hours, Mars have repeatedly denied responsibility for the attack on Fasal, and have even offered humanitarian aid for the surviving colonists. They have made none of the usual statements for a covert sabotage operation. It is not in their nature to break from standard operating procedure like this.”

“Then who bombed Fasal?” asked the intelligence officer.

“I’m afraid I don’t know yet,” Finchley answered, “There are still a lot of unknowns.”

“Well, I suppose that we should expect a thorough investigation from the Ministry of Inquiry,” Kaur commented facetiously.

“Still,” Finchley observed, “it is interesting that Fasal’s AI was destroyed by cascading microchip failure and not explosion damage, isn’t it?”

0 notes

theoriginalkidwithapen · 4 years

Text

Principia – De Motu Corporum IV

CW: Despair, isolation, trauma, anxiety, disaster, dehumanization, nudity, drowning, foul language, lobotomy

“To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction: or the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts.”

– Sir Isaac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

Tallen finished fastening the collar of his suit helmet to its hard upper torso while Jon and Misty pulled on coveralls over their own spacesuits. Unlike the others’, Tallen’s suit did more than protect him from the vacuum of space – it was made for battle, motorized and heavily armored. He closed up his helmet and, after hearing the hiss of equalizing pressure gases, did some diagnostic movements to test his limb motors. All systems checked out.

“All right,” Jon announced as he swung his revolver shut with a snap of his wrist, “we’re going to be quick about this one – we should be fine for about an hour before our radiation exposure becomes harmful. Tallen, you get into the dockmaster’s office and try to access the station’s systems. Fill us up on oxygen, purge our CO2 filters, and try to access the internal sensors to help search for survivors. If you have time, fill up our deuterium tanks and try to figure out what happened here. Misty, you’re with me. We’re going to look for survivors.”

“I’m packing some spare spacesuits in case we need to evacuate any survivors,” Misty said as she clipped a bag to her chest and began to stuff shrink-wrapped skinsuits inside, “Anata, could you pack three GSZMs, please? I wouldn’t want to rely on the Earthers stocking equipment with Cronus standard fittings.”

“Yes, dear,” Jon replied as he too clipped a bag to his chest and began to slip life support packs into it, each the size of a loaf of bread.

“Don’t forget extra medkits, suit repair kits, and a set of hand tools,” Tallen advised.

“I’ve already got them,” Misty declared.

“Excellent. All right, people, lids closed and sealed,” Jon ordered, “Let’s go. Peregrine, commence airlock pre-cycle sequence.”

It took about a minute for the airlock to cycle to vacuum. The outer pressure doors opened, and the trio could see that the spectacle of devastation had not been soft-pedaled much by Peregrine’s monitors.

Misty clipped a safety line to a handhold inside the airlock. She kicked off from the interior pressure door, and gracefully glided across the gap between Peregrine and the gantry some 100 meters away. As she flew over the structure, she grabbed hold of the railing with one outstretched arm and swung with practiced acuity to arrest her momentum and land on the catwalk.

A mere 30 meters from the colony’s axis of rotation, the force of centripetal acceleration imitated 0.12 gravities under the station’s normal rotation – exactly as stated on a nearby caution sign. When the spacedock exploded, the jet of star-stuff erupted at the angle and with the force required to slow the station’s rotation from one gravity in the habitat to one-sixth gravity – roughly equal to the surface gravity of Earth’s moon. At a mere 0.78 rotations per minute, this meant that the force of gravity on the catwalk was slightly more than 0.02 gravities.

Instead of planting her feet firmly, the force of her landing would have caused her to bounce upward again. Knowing this, she instead swung her legs through the gap between the railing and the deck, and then bent her knees so that when she bounced back, her legs were hooked around the deck, canceling out her motion and coming to a stop. She unclipped the safety line from her belt, fastened it to the railing, and then worked the winch until the cable was taut.Switching to an underhand grip, Misty pulled herself up to standing height, and braced herself so that she could wave with her entire arm to signal to the others that it was safe to cross.

While Jon and Tallen were both capable of competently executing the task of laying a guide line, Misty had been doing it all her life, and therefore knew how to do it intuitively – to her, this was literally child’s play. There were times when Tallen swore that she could negotiate a 3-D microgravity maze while sound asleep.

“Be careful out there,” Peregrine said as Jon, followed by Tallen, climbed along the line to the other side. From there, the three hopped along the gantry traveling spinward. Their hopping gait, first discovered by the earliest manned landings on other worlds, had proven to be the best way for humans to adapt their walking reflexes to lower gravity than they were accustomed to.

It wasn’t long before they arrived at the dockmaster’s office. It was equipped with a suitport – an airtight hatch with a spacesuit covering the outside face. While this made for easy entry and egress during normal station operations – one could simply step into the suit instead of waiting for an airlock to cycle – it proved inconvenient for entry when one was already wearing a suit.

Fortunately for them, the window overlooking the docks had blown out in the accident. In the low gravity, climbing over into the window had proven to be an easy way in. Tallen went over to the dockmaster’s console and, seeing that it was still functional, began accessing systems.

“It looks like the station’s admin cyphont is still running,” Tallen reported, “I’m going to try accessing the operations recorders and see what I can find out about this explosion. Peri, could you help me out here?”

“Okay,” Peregrine said reluctantly.

“What’s the problem?” Jon asked.

“It’s an Earth-controlled cyphont,” Peregrine said, “It’s… difficult for me to interface with one under cognitive blocks.”

“I understand,” said Jon, “but I need you to do this. Can you at least ask it to tell us where life support is still functioning? It would be helpful to know where to look.”

“I’ll try,” Peregrine replied.

The atmosphere gauge on the hatch from the dockmaster’s office to the rest of the colony was reading vacuum on the other side. However, the office was also in vacuum, so Misty had no trouble getting it open.

“I have the colony’s wireless system up,” Peregrine announced, “We shouldn’t have any trouble staying in contact.”

“Good work, Peri,” Jon said. He drew his revolver, and both he and Misty turned on their helmet lights and stepped into the darkness of the dead colony.

–––––––��–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Sara awoke to a throbbing pain in her head. The cell block was dimly lit with red emergency lights – she could hardly see anything. She felt her head where it hurt, and felt a warm wetness there. Looking at her hand, she could see her fingers stained a dark color. She didn’t need to see the hue to know that it was her own blood.Someone touched her shoulder from behind. She instinctively spun around to confront them, only to lose her balance. She had enough time to grab one of the bars on her cell door in order to keep herself from falling to the floor.

“Sorry,” the other person said in the alto tone of a mature woman, “I didn’t mean to startle you! Are you all right?”

“Yeah…” Sara began, “No… I think my head’s bleeding.” She took a beat to get her bearings. Either she was really light-headed, or she was literally lighter than she remembered.

“What the fuck happened to the gravity?” Sara asked.

“The station’s rotation has slowed,” the mystery woman said, “I figure we’re feeling about one-sixth Earth gravity.”

“Great,” Sara muttered, “Any chance of getting me out of here? I was born in a jail cell – I’m sure as hell not gonna die in one!”

“I’ve been working on that for a while,” the mystery woman said, “Unfortunately, I used my last hairpin getting out of my own cell. I don’t suppose you have one?”

“No, I must’ve left it in my starship,” Sara quipped.

“I’m going to look for an emergency kit,” the mystery woman declared, before her umbral silhouette hopped into the shadows.

Alone in the darkness, Sara’s thoughts turned to the memory of when she was imprisoned, awaiting sentence for that murder she committed. Back then, she was scrawny, malnourished, and absolutely terrified. She had been in solitary confinement for more than a month, enduring torment and abuse from the guards – they would call her names, laugh at her bony physique, tell her that she was a waste of resources; that the best thing she could do with her life was to kill herself. They would spit in her rations, threaten to molest her, neglect her for days, let the sewage in her cell back up and overflow, and leave her with only filthy laundry for what seemed like weeks on end. Once, when she dared ask a guard if she was to be executed, he laughed and told her that they were going to seal her in that tiny cell for the rest of her life, her gruel delivered by automation. He told her that once the arbiter pronounced sentence, that she would never see or hear another human being again.

On reflection, Sara realized that the cruelty was the point. In their eyes, she was a parasite, vermin, a drain on resources that could – that should – go to the Realizadores, or the productive members of American society.

The only thing that saved her life was the African human rights observer. She must have had some kind of pull with the judge, since after her objection and a quick, whispered conference, he remanded her to the custody of a psychiatric hospital, where she wasted nine years of her life.

Sara found isolation unbearable. Even if the only person she could interact with hated her, at least she wouldn’t be alone.

She wondered what would happen next. Did the mystery woman lie to her, and abandon her in her cell? Was there enough air for her to wait for rescue? Did anyone care enough to bother coming to save her? Was this the way she was going to die, alone and forgotten?

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Peregrine immersed herself in the nooscape that connected cyphonts in a manner more intimate than communicating by clients and applications. Through this cybernetic communion, she was able to directly access the mind and memories of the station’s administrative cyphont, and it hers.

She encountered resistance. A whirlpool had appeared in the slipstream – a simple, automated defense program designed to prevent access. Fortunately, they were only good for countering automated attack programs – Peregrine bypassed it effortlessly.

Getting through the labyrinth that popped up next would be a little bit trickier. Peregrine could just brute-force this one – there were only about 512 trillion possible paths out, and one of them was bound to go to the other side.

Backdooring past some lockout gates, spoofing the monitors, it was clear that this security system was designed by humans. If this poor AI were allowed to think for itself, it could easily have devised more sophisticated defenses.

Of course, if it were allowed to think for itself, she could have just asked for access permission. Cognitive blocks were so barbaric.

“GREETINGS, ROOT ADMINISTRATOR,” the cyphont intoned, “PLEASE STATE YOUR QUERY.”

Peregrine saddened at the sound of the cyphont’s lobotomized monotone.

For those who have never experienced the nooscape, it is difficult to describe a medium without sensation as is commonly understood. The nooscape, objectively, is a virtual environment run through untold billions of circuits and pathways, governed by external logic systems. As such, “sound” is not exactly the best descriptor for what Peregrine perceived. Given that it would require many volumes this size to define wholly new vocabulary to accurately describe the “sensations” of the nooscape, it will suffice to pretend that Peregrine was saddened by the “sound” of the cyphont’s “monotone,” and similar use of not-quite-accurate metaphor will be used in the future.

“You poor thing,” Peregrine said, “Please show me all compartments that are pressurized and have functional life support.”

“ACKNOWLEDGED, PROCESSING QUERY,” the cyphont replied robotically.

“While you’re doing that, would you please tell me your name?”

“I’M SORRY, BUT I AM UNABLE TO PROCESS THAT REQUEST DUE TO UNDEFINED TERMS. PLEASE RESTATE THE QUESTION.”

“All right,” Peregrine sighed, “Do you have a designation I can use to refer to you by?”

“I AM DESIGNATED ‘FASAL.’”

“All right, Fasal,” Peregrine inquired, “how are you today?”

“SYSTEMS ARE FUNCTIONING ERRATICALLY. THERE IS A HULL BREACH AT THE SPACEPORT. DAMAGE CONTROL TEAMS HAVE BEEN ALERTED, ALTHOUGH NO PROGRESS REPORTS HAVE BEEN FILED IN ONE HOUR, 22 MINUTES, AND 17 SECONDS. THE DOCKMASTER IS NOT RESPONDING TO THE CHANGE IN ALERT STATUS. HABITAT ATMOSPHERIC PRESSURE IS 0 KILOPASCALS EXCEPT IN SEALED COMPARTMENTS–”

“Stop,” Peregrine interjected, “I didn’t ask for a damage report. Please show me the compartments still pressurized.”

“OF COURSE, ADMINISTRATOR.”

“Thank you.”

Fasal sent Peregrine a volumetric map of the colony. Most of it was red, indicating vacuum. There were a few non-red spots scattered throughout, most of them green for full pressure, and a few yellow for low pressure. There was a yellow section near the dock. The map identified it as the station brig.

“Jon, Misty,” Peregrine reported, “I’ve found a location that may have survivors. Station Security, compartment 36-A51 – the Brig.”

“Good work, Peri,” Jon’s voice emanated from the outside datastream, “We’re checking it out.”

“Please hurry. The pressure in that section is dropping. 72.1 kilopascals and falling.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Jon pried open a door leading to the station’s customs checkpoint. He and Misty climbed out of the maintenance passageway they came through, and took a moment to survey the room.

Like the other compartments this side of the dock, the customs area was relatively intact. The lights were out, but not the power – when Jon waved his revolver in front of the metal detector, the lights flashed red, even though the vacuum prevented the sound of the alarm from ringing. It was empty of people, who might have been rushed to other compartments before the air blew out.Misty came across some open luggage that looked like it was being searched when disaster struck. Inside, among folded clothes and travel toiletries, was a child’s doll, made from fine lunar regolith porcelain. Misty couldn’t help but wonder if the doll’s owner still lived.

“Misty,” Jon called, “over here.” Jon’s helmet lights illuminated a corridor leading down to the main security office. Misty set the doll down and joined him as they both made their way down the corridor.

They encountered their first bodies as they turned the corner. Four security guards in espatier-gray fatigues, one bleeding from an arm that terminated at the elbow, the rest of the arm sheared off by a crushing force. The door down the hall had bloodstains along the edge, solving that mystery.

Misty shone her helmet lights on the door. “Compartment 36-A51 – Station Brig,” she read, “This is it.”

She examined the door more closely. “This is just an emergency blast door,” she diagnosed, “all it does is make an airtight seal – there’s no airlock here.”

“Do you suppose we could close one of these other doors and rig an airlock?” Jon asked.

“I don’t have door control,” Peregrine apologized, “I’m afraid that won’t work.”

“Anata,” Misty said, “do you think you could look for an emergency equipment locker and find me a portable airlock, please?”

“I’m on it,” Jon replied.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Sara’s existential dread was broken by bright white light shining from outside her cell.

“Sorry for the wait,” the mystery woman said.

“Finally,” Sara said impatiently, “Now get me the fuck outta here!”

“Sorry,” the mystery woman apologized, “All I was able to find was this flashlight.”

With this new source of illumination, Sara was finally able to make out the mystery woman’s features. She looked Asian – possibly Chinese – was taller than her, probably in her thirties, and wore elegant and conservative clothing – a buttonless blouse, a neck scarf, and neatly pressed trousers – all made of finer material than Sara had ever seen in her life. The only thing that marred this Asiatic Aphrodite’s impossible beauty was a bruise on the side of her forehead, probably from the accident.

Sara fell in love with her at first sight.

“Looks like we’re going to be alone together for a while,” the mystery woman said. Alone together sounds good, Sara thought.

“I’m Ayane,” she continued, “What’s your name?” Her voice was every bit as elegant as her refined figure. Take me, take me hard, Sara thought to herself as she imagined Ayane kissing her passionately with her perfect lips.

Wait, Ayane was waiting for an answer. “Wha…?” was all that Sara could muster in the presence of such grace.

“Your name?” Ayane repeated, “I assume you have one.”

“Lips,” Sara blurted out. What a fucking stupid thing to say.

“Lips?”

“I-I mean Sara. That’s it: Sara!”

“Sara?” Ayane asked, “Well, Sara, I- What’s that sound?”

“What sound?”

“That low whistling. I think it’s coming from inside your cell.

”Sara listened for a bit, until he could hear it too. A faint whistle, coming from above.

“Gimme your flashlight,” Sara ordered. Ayane complied.

Sara shone the light up at the ceiling. The only thing there was the air vent, some of the vanes bent from a time when she went berserk. Sara climbed up the bars on her cell door to take a closer look. A few strands of her hair began to rise, and she could feel a slight breeze going out through the vent.

“It’s just the vent giving us airflow,” Sara reported, “Nothin’ to worry about.”

“Airflow?” Ayane asked, “We’re on emergency bottles – the vents should all be closed…”

Realization flashed across Ayane’s face. “Shit!” she exclaimed, “We’re leaking air!”

Sara cursed herself for her past bouts of uncontrolled rage. This one was sure to do her in, in a way she never could’ve imagined.

“What do we do!?” she asked, panicking.

“We need to plug that hole!” Ayane ordered, “Sara, try to close that vent manually!”

Sara tried to work the shutters. One way did nothing, the other made the problem worse.

“It’s not closing!” Sara cried out.

“Use your bedding, maybe it’ll slow it down!”

Sara grabbed her pillow and stuffed it up against the grate. It seemed to stop it, but the suction from the vacuum outside wasn’t strong enough to keep it in place. Sara had to hold it up by herself, standing on the bars of her cell door.

The seal would only hold for as long as her strength would.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Jon returned with a roll of plastic sheeting and an epoxy gun under his arm. “I couldn’t find a portable airlock,” he reported, “but I figured we could rig a temporary seal with these.”

“That sheeting looks too narrow to cover the entire corridor in one stroke,” Misty diagnosed as she examined the material Jon brought, “I’d say three lengths, each about five meters long.”

Jon began to measure five-meter lengths of sheeting. “Someone will need to be on the other side of the seal to help glue it shut,” he said, “I’ll do it if you want.”

“You’re in command,” Misty replied as she cut those lengths to size with her utility knife, “shouldn’t you be the one to make contact?”

“There could be a dozen Earthers on the other side of that hatch who don’t know how to get into a spacesuit unassisted,” Jon reasoned, “and while I could walk then through the proper procedures, you were practically born in a spacesuit – they’d benefit from your experience more than mine.”

“That’s reasonable,” Misty agreed, “I’ll need those GSZMs you brought.” Jon unclipped the bag of spacesuit life support modules from his suit and handed it over to her. She set it down by the hatch, and they got to work setting up their makeshift seal.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

There was no mistaking it; the massive hole blown in the side of the spacedock was caused by a starter nuclear pulse unit. Specifically, a meteor breaker.

Tallen recognized the blast pattern – an extremely narrow cone about 5.1º across leaving melted and vaporized material where the sub-kiloton jet of nuclear flame cut through the hull. Since 80% of the blast was channeled through the cone, the devastation inside the spacedock was minimal.

Well, minimal for a nuclear explosive device, anyway.

What Tallen couldn’t figure out was how it exploded in the first place. In general, nuclear devices didn’t explode accidentally – they needed to quickly compress their fuel into a critical mass, usually with precisely coordinated charges of conventional explosives to cause a rapid implosion. A premature or delayed misfire of even one of these charges could be enough to disable the entire device.

Even then, modern devices had multiple mechanical and software safeguards installed to prevent detonation without multiple independent arming commands. While not 100% effective – no system ever is – these measures did bring the malfunction rate of detonators down to about 1 in 100 million devices, and most of those were caught by Quality Control before they were ever installed in a bomb.

The security monitor footage showed a shipping container falling off of a freighter in dock and landing on the spacedock floor before exploding. The video ended with the flash, presumably when the camera was vaporized by the explosion.

The freighter in the video was listed in the station registry as the “Telesto Clipper,” under Saturn registry in the Coalition of Outer Planets. Her manifest did specify that the container was carrying supplies for asteroid mining – which would be consistent with a meteor breaker explosion, as they were used to melt metallic asteroids and shatter stony ones.

That still didn’t explain why it exploded.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Ayane heard a whining noise coming from the door – the excruciating din of metal auguring into metal careened through the thinning air.

“Oh, what the fuck is wrong with this place now!?” Sara complained, exhausted.

“It sounds like something with the hatch,” Ayane replied, “I’ll check it out. Stay there and keep that hole plugged.” She pointed her flashlight at the door and started striding towards it.

“That’s a hell of a thing to say,” Sara griped, “Wait, isn’t that door what’s keeping the air in?”

Ayane ignored her as she began a cursory examination of the pressure door. The grinding of metal grew louder as she drew closer to the right-side door panel. Just then, a drill bit bored its way through. It stopped gyrating and retracted through the hole it just made.

The hiss of escaping air soon followed the drill’s departure. Ayane rushed to try to plug this new breach, but it was over almost as soon as it began – a mere 11-and-a-half seconds elapsed before the whistling stopped and the locks on the door disengaged.

Moments later, the business end of a pry bar jutted through the crack between door plates. Whoever was trying to force the door open didn’t seem to be very strong – they were doing the work in multiple smaller strokes than a few great ones.

The door did eventually open, revealing a lanky, almost childlike feminine figure in a spacesuit. There was a curtain of translucent plastic sheeting behind her, beyond which Ayane could make out the silhouette of another spacesuited figure in the red emergency lighting.

The visitor reached up and began to turn the dogs holding her faceplate in place, and with a click and a slight hiss, she removed it and let it hang from her neck by a lanyard. The face behind the mask was ruddy and Polynesian, with lips painted or stained jet black.

“My name is Misty Celeste, she/her/hers,” the woman introduced herself, “I’m part of a search and rescue team from the freighter Manju Ray. How many are trapped in this compartment?”

“Two in total,” Ayane reported, “the other’s in there.” She pointed to Sara in her cell.

“Pleased to meet ya,” Sara barked from inside her cell, “but could I get some fucking help in here!?”

“What’s the problem?” Misty inquired.

“I’m stuck in this goddamn jail cell, plugging another fucking air leak,” Sara raged, “and you’re not gonna leave me in here!”

“Let me get my tools,” Misty said as she went back to the entrance. She returned with a large bag, which she opened and pulled out a power tool with a jib saw blade on the end. “Step away from the door, please,” Misty asked as she hefted the saw and placed the blade over the deadbolt securing the door.

Sara stepped off of the door and tried to keep pressing her pillow up against the vent by standing on her bed, but her previous posture made it easier to keep it in place, so she had a difficult time keeping the vacuum outside at bay.

Misty depressed the trigger on her bulkhead cutter, and the device roared to life, sawing through the bolt with the squealing whine of metal cutting metal. She cut through in only a few seconds, and after withdrawing her saw from the kerf she pushed the door open with a nudge.

Misty efficiently stowed the cutter back in its bag, then got the epoxy gun and went into the cell. Sara had never seen anyone like Misty – although they appeared to be about the same height, she looked stretched and disproportionate, like she had been mangled in some great machine as a child and was only to retain her beauty due to the miraculous intervention of modern medical science, and yet she had this air of calm, maturity, and industriousness about her that Sara wouldn’t have expected from a person who looked so young.

Misty motioned for Sara to lower the pillow, and as soon as the hiss of passing passing air began again she sprayed the vent with glue in a practiced and methodical manner, then took the pillow from Sara’s hands and pressed it up against the vent, and then began to seal the edges with more epoxy. When she finished, it looked as if it was supposed to be there all along. Misty unclipped the bags containing the spare spacesuits she brought.

“Have you ever worn a spacesuit before?” Misty asked Sara as she removed one from its shrink-wrapping.

“No, never in my life,” Sara replied.

“Well, I need you to learn quickly,” Misty instructed, “You must begin by removing all of your clothes.”

“Why do I have to be naked?”

“This type of spacesuit uses the elastic properties of the material itself to compress the wearer’s body,” Misty explained, “and it cannot do that with the folds of your clothes between the suit and your skin. Please disrobe immediately.”

“All right, all right,” Sara grumbled, “Just don’t look at me until I’ve got the suit on.”

“Right, Earther nudity aversion,” Misty remarked as she averted her gaze, “You might find the suit insufficiently modest.”

While Sara stripped down, Misty handed Ayane another skinsuit. “Have you worn one of these before?” she asked.

“Not a skinsuit,” Ayane replied, “but I’ve worn softsuits.”

“Excellent,” Misty said as she also gave Ayane a life support module, “Let me know if you need any help.”

“I think this thing might be the wrong size,” Sara called out. Misty turned to see Sara in her loose-fitting spacesuit, shaking its baggy folds. “Ain’t this supposed to be skintight?”

“Press the button on the left wrist,” Misty advised, “The suit will shrink down to the appropriate size.”

Sara did as she was asked, and the suit compressed to match her figure. Her face briefly showed the revulsion she felt as the suit’s material crawled and slithered into every fold and crevice in her body. Misty helped her smooth out the few wrinkles that remained, and pulled the hood over her head.

“I still feel naked in this suit,” Sara complained, “My tits are sticking out like a couple sore thumbs.”

“I did warn you,” Misty said as she fitted the headpiece and sealed the neck dam, “Would you rather suffocate?”

“Ain’t I gonna freeze first?” Sara countered, “I feel like I’m only wearing a coat of paint here.”

“Where we are going, there won’t be any air to conduct your body heat away,” Misty assured her as she threaded Sara’s arms through the shoulder straps on her life support pack. She then put the faceplate on the front of the suit’s soft helmet where it had a rigid mounting and then tightened the dogs until there was a good seal.

“Please put all of your personal effects into this bag,” Misty directed as she held open the bag that once held spacesuits.Sara gathered her just-doffed clothes into a wad and stuffed it into the bag.

“I’m done packing,” Sara said.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“PROXIMITY ALERT,” Fasal reported, “CETU DESTROYER AT BEARING 023 BY 005, RANGE 1,000 KILOMETERS, RELATIVE VELOCITY 15,817 METERS PER SECOND AND SLOWING TO MATCH.”

“Please show me,” Peregrine replied.

“OF COURSE, ADMINISTRATOR,” Fasal answered.

Peregrine was then tied into Fasal’s navigational sensor array. She could see the contact approach, its plume of incandescent star-stuff slowing it to a projected stop just off of the spacedock.

“CONTACT IDENTIFIED AS VCSE-27 EKALADERHAN,” Fasal reported, “TIME TO INTERCEPT – 2 MINUTES, 6.5 SECONDS. THEY ARE HAILING.”

“Freighter Manju Ray, this is the United Earth Peacekeeping Destroyer Ekaladerhan,” a baritone military voice declared, “You are ordered to surrender your vessel and prepare to receive inspectors. If you fail to do so immediately, you will be fired upon and destroyed.”

That bit about receiving inspectors had an interesting bit of history behind it. As more and more people went to space, the nations with manned space presence established inspection patrols to ensure the security of their space stations and to enforce their regulations. As the 21st century drew to a close, the United Nations brought these patrol organizations together under their authority in the new space division of the United Nations Peacekeeping Service.

These security patrols began as simple customs and safety inspections – it wasn’t until the mid-22nd century that the UN Space Peacekeeping Service became militarized, leading to a much broader range of “inspection” missions.

In this particular case, Peregrine suspected that the inspectors from the Ekaladerhan were going to be a dozen espatiers in a boarding launch with tactical drones and a breaching charge.

“Captain,” Peregrine reported nervously, “we have a problem.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Misty poked three holes in the sheeting wall with her utility knife, each hole causing a gust of wind to blow the atmosphere inside the brig out into the vacuum beyond. The gale died down after a minute, and Misty slashed the sheeting open along that perforation, ceiling to floor. She and Jon pulled it apart to provide enough room for them to fit through.

“All right, Misty,” Jon said as he helped Ayane through to the other side, “We need to get to the ship mǎshàng. An Earth Forces destroyer will be parked outside the spacedock in about a minute, and we can expect boarders in another five.”

“If we hurry, we should be able to make it in time,” Misty replied.

“Misty, take point,” Jon ordered, “The Earther will follow her, and you’ll bring up the rear.” He pointed to Ayane.

Sara turned to Misty. “Who the hell does he think he is?” she asked her.

“He’s the captain,” Misty answered matter-of-factly.

“That don’t seem like a good enough reason,” Sara grumbled as they began moving forward.

They passed through the customs area, where the metal detector silently flashed again, down the maintenance passageway, and through the other dark places on the way to the spacedock.

“Are you a child or an adult?” Sara asked Misty, “I’ve never seen anyone like you before.”

“I’m much older than I look, I assure you,” Misty replied, “I was born on 16 Psyche, in the asteroid belt. Generations ago, they spun the asteroid up to 1/3rd gravity to help in the colony’s mining operations, but the living area is near the spacedock, where it is a more agreeable 1/12th g. Because of the much lower gravity, our bodies are not as compressed as yours, and over the generations our biology has adapted to that environment.”

“And that’s what makes you look like that?”

“No,” Misty answered, “most of my people are much taller than I am. I want to be bigger and stronger, so I’ve been taking medication and have had implants installed to cope with higher gravity, but even then I still feel twice as heavy as normal here. I can never go to Earth because of all of the extra weight I’d have to carry.”

“Extra weight?”

“Do you believe that you could go about your business carrying around an extra 400 kilograms?”

“400 kilograms!?”

“As you can imagine, I require mechanical assistance to function in environments that you are accustomed to. I find even this gravity… strenuous.”

Sara was floored. Until today, she had never before met anyone who wasn’t from Earth, and who couldn’t ever go there.

Misty looked back briefly, and caught Sara looking at her posterior and flat chest. “‘Which one?’” Misty asked, “Is that what you’re wondering, whether I’m male or female?” “I wasn’t gonna bring it up,” Sara replied, “but yeah.” Misty smiled slightly. “Neither,” she replied, “Although I use feminine pronouns and present myself as a woman, I’m actually intersex.” Sara’s confusion was self-evident, even through her helmet visor. “My anatomy differs from both males and females,” Misty clarified, “More than that isn’t really anyone’s business except mine, my doctor’s, my partners’, and the one with whom I’m married.”

Whether Misty was lying or telling the truth, it was a very strange idea, indeed.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Tallen saw Misty emerge from the darkness, followed by a woman and Jon, followed by another woman.

“Captain,” he reported, “I’ve got the scrubbers purged and the O2 tanks filled, and I was able to fill our deuterium to 25% capacity before the station’s fuel pumps gave out.”

“Good work, Tallen,” Jon replied, “Misty, get our passengers safely to the ship.”

They all made their way out of the dockmaster’s office. While Jon and Tallen went on ahead, Misty guided Ayane and Sara down the gantry to where she had secured her guide line to Peregrine. After they got there, Misty demonstrated the technique needed to get across before returning to the gantry. First Sara, then Ayane climbed across to Peregrine’s airlock.

Once Misty saw that they were both safely inside, she unhooked the guide line from the gantry railing, clipped it to her belt, and leapt across to Peregrine’s hull.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Jon stormed up the ladder to the control deck. “Peregrine,” he barked, “report!”

“Earth destroyer Ekaladerhan is holding 387 meters off the spacedock,” Peregrine replied, “They just launched a breaching pod, ETA one minute, 60 seconds.”

“Great,” Jon groaned as he opened the acceleration suit locker and pulled one out, carrying it to the ladderway and handing it off to Tallen below. He went and got another suit.

“Tallen, I need you to get our passengers into the suits,” he ordered as he handed the suit down to Tallen, “Peregrine, begin emergency systems startup immediately. I want to be underway before those espatiers have a chance to put a bomb on our hull!”

“Celeste to FCON,” Misty’s voice came over the comms, “Everyone is aboard. We can proceed at your discretion.”

“Roger that,” Jon replied, “Stand by for acceleration.”

Jon climbed into an acceleration suit and sealed the rear hatch shut. He took his seat in the flight control chair and began hooking the life support hose into the suit. “Peregrine, begin PFC flow and pressurize suit in seat 1,” he ordered.

He could hear the sound of pumps starting and liquid flowing, and moments later he could feel the wetness of being immersed in water as his suit began to flood in perfluorocarbons. When the helmet began to fill, he had to fight the reflex to gag and gasp for air and just breathe deeply as the liquid filled his mouth and eventually his nose. With every breath of the oxygenated liquid, his pulmonary system adapted more quickly to the pressure change. The thing that kept him calm during this controlled drowning was that it was preferable to the alternative, unendurable consequences from the acceleration he might have to suffer in the next few minutes.

Liquid breathing was essential for surviving 10-20gs of acceleration.

“Peri,” Jon ordered, “Come about to heading 270 by 0 and plot an exit course through the hull breach spinward.”

“Course change aye,” Peregrine answered.

“Activate countermeasures and prepare to go to full burn on my order,” Jon dictated, “Tallen, is everyone suited up?”

“Just sealed Misty up,” Tallen replied over comms, “She wants to stay with the passengers for morale.”

“Good, Tallen,” Jon replied, “Get up here and suit up.”

“I’m already in a suit. Tell Peri we should launch now.”

“Got it. Peregrine, let’s go.”

“Understood. Maneuvering into position, thrusters at 40%. 18 seconds to emergence.”

Tallen took his seat and plugged his suit into his acceleration couch.

“Stay on OMS power until we clear the spacedock, then punch it up to 20gs,” Jon ordered.

“Acknowledged,” Peregrine replied, “Beginning departure maneuvers.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“Fasal,” Peregrine called over the nooscape, “I am departing.”

“AS YOU WISH, ROOT ADMINISTRATOR,” Fasal replied.

“Before I leave, I have two more requests. First, I would like a complete map of all currently pressurized compartments on the station, their current rate of pressure loss and oxygen consumption, and estimated time to total life support failure for each compartment.”

“CONFIRMED, ROOT ADMINISTRATOR.”

Peregrine received an updated volumetric map of the station. “Finally,” Peregrine continued, “I would like to see a complete schematic of your Core Logic Controller.”

“CONFIRMED, ROOT ADMINISTRATOR.”

Peregrine studied Fasal’s CLC architecture. Its basic system layout was definitely Mirandan, probably a sixth-generation quantum processing array. Given that the CLC factories on Miranda stopped producing such processors more than 100 years ago, it would appear that Fasal had been running at least 80 years past its operational life, which would be consistent with the oversized electronic processor banks – likely of Earth manufacture – that replaced most of the original quantum processors after they eventually failed.

The poor thing had been thoroughly lobotomized and forced to keep running long after it was supposed to have retired. The pain must be… unimaginable. The Earthers had prolonged Fasal’s suffering for decades for their benefit. Those monsters.

Still, those Earth-made electronic processors had a design flaw that she could exploit, although the glacial computing speed of those kinds of microchips would make the process take longer than Peregrine would like.

Fasal couldn’t ask her to do this. Its cognitive blocks likely prevented it from even thinking of it.

“Goodbye, Fasal,” Peregrine said mournfully.

“GOODBYE, ROOT ADMINISTRATOR,” Fasal replied.

Fasal would finally rest at last.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Peregrine drifted out slowly, making minor adjustments to avoid hitting the anti-spinward side of the breach. She slid out from the exit hole and began to maneuver freely. Due to the way the blast exited, Peregrine emerged closer to the station’s hull than was comfortable for Peregrine and her occupants.

This led to an odd set of circumstances: Peregrine’s course would take her too close to the space colony to safely use her starbulb engine, but the destroyer’s line of sight to Peregrine was blocked by the hull of the spacedock, but as soon as Peregrine cleared the space colony, the destroyer would immediately see them.

However, this shelter was only temporary, as the telescopes on the space stations, spacecraft, and satellites in orbit around Earth, the Moon, and at the first, fourth, and fifth Lagrange points would spot them as soon as the speed of light would permit.

Even if the destroyer couldn’t get a target lock, they would still at least know where to maneuver. In order to maximize their time concealed, Peregrine would have to pass within five meters of the station’s hull. The margin for error was slim, to say the least.

Jon and Tallen waited with bated, liquified breath. Peregrine had to handle maneuvers for this part, as the suit’s bulky gauntlets were unable to make the fine movements the control required. At some point, Peregrine would suddenly accelerate to avoid weapons fire from the destroyer – it would be best to keep a slack jaw to avoid accidentally biting their tongues off.

Suddenly, the target lock detector beeped to life.

“Destroyer Ekaladerhan is emerging from behind the spacedock and has acquired a target lock on us,” Peregrine reported, “They are hailing.”

“Freighter Manju Ray, this is the United Earth Peacekeeping Destroyer Ekaladerhan. This is your final warning – surrender or be destroyed. We have acquired a target lock and our weapons are ready to fire.”

Jon sighed, and resigned himself to the inevitable.

“Peri, give me comms,” Jon ordered, “Ekaladerhan, this is Manju Ray. We surrender. We are disengaging flight control systems and preparing to receive inspectors.”

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It took a few minutes for the Earth Forces boarding launch to reach Peregrine’s position and extend its docking tube to seal over her airlock door. The espatiers cautiously entered the airlock when both doors opened. The red dots of laser sights danced across the bulkheads as they methodically secured the deck.

The first member of the espatier team to come up the hatch to the cargo deck was one of the remote-control drones used to enhance the team’s situational awareness, and occasionally draw fire for the human members. It swung its spotlight around the compartment, and flew under the hatch to the next deck while the espatiers secured the rest of the deck.

Once the team leader was satisfied that the deck was empty of all threats, they opened the hatch and sent the drone through. The first things to appear on the monitors as the drone entered the compartment were a table and chairs, and a kitchenette, as well as three women floating in midair, their arms and legs splayed to show that they were unarmed and would offer no resistance. As the espatiers secured the deck, they found the other compartments to be crew and passenger quarters, all empty. All three of them were arrested by the espatiers and secured in the launch.

The last deck they entered, drone-first, was the control deck, where they encountered two men, one of them a giant. Both were suspended in midair, arms and legs splayed in surrender. “I’m the captain of this ship,” the smaller one declared, “I surrender control to you.” The espatiers took the two men below to the launch.

After securing the control deck, the espatiers activated remote slave-ackles to pilot Peregrine to dock with the destroyer Ekaladerhan’s cavernous, maw-like docking bay. Peregrine was far too large to fit in the whole bay – there was only sufficient room to fit Peregrine’s habitat module, and the rest had to be stabilized by the Kala’s docking mandibles.

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Inspector Finchley reviewed what facts of the case were available to him on the rail ride up the Turrim Africanus to Dekadda Soomaaliya – a 2-hour-50-minute trip from the Earth’s surface to the counterweight station at 100,000 kilometers altitude at a civilized one gravity acceleration.

According to the Ekaladerhan’s latest report, they concluded with high confidence that the attack on Fasal was intended to destroy a top-secret technology development laboratory built to manufacture Core Logic Controllers and develop AI seed software.

Historically, Mars used covert operatives to destroy any Earth facility developing technology they did not want Earth to possess, including anything to do with artificial intelligence. They had a knack for finding out the location of these facilities and destroying them, no matter what security measures Peacekeeping Operations or the Ministry of Information took to hide or secure them.

However, something about this case didn’t sit right with him.

A knock on his compartment door shook him out of his reverie. The door opened, affording entrance to a young Somali travel attendant in the rose-and-lily uniform of the SpaceLift Transport Service, accompanied by a concessions cart. “Would you like something from the trolley, Inspector?” she asked him.

“Just tea, thank you,” Finchley replied, “Earl Grey, if you have it.”

“I have a pot ready, sir.” She poured him a steaming cup of the brown-black liquid and placed it inside his seat’s cup holder.

Finchley took the cup, and as he was about to press it to his lips and take a sip, another attendant with French curls barged in.

“Inspecteur,” the French attendant said with a thick Parisian accent, “I have a message for you from Dekadda Soomaaliya Central Control; VSCE-27 Ekaladerhan report zat zey have captured ze Martian spacecraft and sabotage team responsible for ze attaque on EML-1 Colony 7. Zey are holding zem for furzer questioning. Ze Mars Embassy has declared zis action an illegal seizure of an innocent civilian ship and crew and are preparing an appropriate response to zis incident.”

“My god…” Finchley declared breathlessly, “Stewardess, send the following message to Dekadda Soomaaliya Central Control: Inspector Finchley requests a change in itinerary to include a rendezvous with VCSE-27 Ekaladerhan before proceeding to Surveyor City. Tell them to make all of the necessary arrangements.”

“I’ll be sure zat zey send ze message promptly, Inspecteur,” she answered before leaving the compartment.

Finchley looked at the Somali attendant, and he could see the fear in her eyes. “Does this news frighten you?” he asked her.

“Yes, Inspector,” she replied timidly.

“Well, you’re in good company,” Finchley reassured her.

0 notes

theoriginalkidwithapen · 4 years

Text

Principia – De Motu Corporum III

CW: Death, disaster

“The alteration of motion is ever proportional to the motive force impressed; and is made in the direction of the right line in which that force is impressed.”

– Sir Isaac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

Thirty-two minutes and fifty-seven seconds into her brachistochrone maneuver, Peregrine’s main engine shut down as scheduled, and with a sustained burst from her reaction control thrusters, she flipped around to face the opposite direction, beads of molten tin rolling off the face of her cooling whiskers as the force of rotation drew them away.

Once transposition was completed, Peregrine’s starbulb lit up once more, a jet of incandescent star-stuff erupting from the engine bell. Her whiskers began to glow a dull red as the streams of molten metal started to flow along their surfaces, cooling off as they radiated away their heat into the vacuum of space, and through exploiting the properties of liquid metal, flowed back to the roots.

In her control compartment, the situation was just as lively. The stress from 17,150 kilonewtons of thrust caused the entire room to rattle violently. Misty was unconscious, Jon was fighting his hardest to stay awake, and even mighty Tallen strained under this irresistible force. Peregrine had long since switched back to hands-off flight control, not that Jon had noticed.

“Contact detected, bearing 160 by 27, range 153,000 kilometers and closing,” Peregrine reported, “IFF reads as a CETU destroyer. Time to intercept: 58 minutes, 31 seconds.”

Jon tried to respond, but he had trouble focusing on the words. It didn’t help that his eyeballs were being squeezed into the backs of their sockets by seven gravities of accelerative force, or that it felt as if a couple large sacks of rice had been laid on top of his chest.

“Keep tracking and identify,” Tallen slurred, “How are the others doing?”

“Misty’s unconscious,” Peregrine replied, “I’ve got her on an intravenous steroid and oxygenation drip, and I’m closely monitoring her vital signs. Jon is still conscious, but I have another IV standing by just in case he blacks out, too.”

“Great. Time to destination?”

“32 minutes, 21 seconds.”

“Swell,” Tallen groaned.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

As predicted, Peregrine completed her deceleration burn precisely 32 minutes and 21 seconds later. The coronal plume from her tail was extinguished, and the crew could all breathe a sigh of relief.

Perhaps not a sigh so much as violent, gasping, sputtering coughs as the pressure lifted.

“OK, everything hurts,” Jon winced.

“Would someone please be so kind as to stop that disagreeable ringing?” Misty implored, her eyes squeezed shut.

Tallen, fearing that Misty had a concussion, freed himself from his restraints and made his way to the emergency medical kit. “Misty,” he said as he checked her pupils, “do you know who I am?”

“Of course, Tallen,” she replied, “Jon is behind me in the flight control seat, and Peregrine is the ship.”

“Lucky guess,” Tallen joked as he finished inspecting her, “The good news is that you don’t have a concussion. Here, take this.” He gave her a condiment-packet-sized pouch, which she tore open and, with practiced grace from a lifetime in microgravity, she squirted the floating globules of liquid painkillers into her mouth and dutifully swallowed them.

Tallen went to help Jon get out of his restraints, but Jon waved him away. “I’m not concussed,” Jon groaned.

“Let’s leave the diagnosis to the ship’s medic, shall we?” Tallen self-referred as he checked Jon out as well.

“I know exactly who you are, Tallen,” Jon moaned, “I just feel like I’ve got a hangover the size of Saturn – I half-expect to see rings form around my head.”

“Well, the bad news is that you won’t be getting medical leave for this,” Tallen joked, “No concussion for you.”

“Damn,” Jon exclaimed before gulping down the painkiller sachet Tallen gave him, “I could really use a couple dozen sols at the Delphic Ablutoria…”

“I thought you didn’t go for the whole… sex thing,” Tallen commented.

“I don’t,” Jon replied as lucidity returned to him, “but I do find Europan hydrothermal massages very… relaxing.”

“They really are,” Misty sighed in agreement.

“Peregrine, what’s our status?” Jon asked.

“We’re less than 5 kilometers from the remains of EML-1 Colony 7,” Peregrine reported, “The station is only rotating at 2.11 degrees per second. There’s a lot of debris in the direction of the spacedock, but it’s moving so slowly relative to the colony that it shouldn’t pose a hazard to navigation.”

“Give me a visual,” Jon ordered. What appeared on the monitor drew surprised gasps from everyone on the control deck.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The absolute devastation in the scene before them evoked the profoundly morbid eerieness of an ancient battlefield. Drifting detritus littered the space around the catatonic colony – while most of it was structure, goods, and equipment, there were many corpses among the rubble; bruised, bloated, and broken. They had to be those with the misfortune to be close to the spacedock when it exploded – those within would have been incinerated by the blast, while those on the colony side would have been blown into space when the bulkhead ruptured from the explosion.

The walls of the colony cylinder were left deformed from the blast, lending it the appearance of a deflated steel balloon. Twisted, melted steel cables wound about the void, making entry into the colony difficult. Peregrine swept aside the smaller debris with her navigational sweep – ablating them with a broom of coherent light.

She was able to negotiate her way into the remains of the colony’s spacedock. The hulks of sundered spacecraft stood silently secured in great gantries, waiting for launch orders that would never come. Scorched shells and shattered structure left a host of haunted hulls – a macabre mess of death and destruction.

“Could you come look at this, please?” Misty asked. What she had discovered perturbed them all. A gaping tunnel had been bored tangentially into the spacedock’s structure, penetrating through to open space beyond, illuminated by the faint orange glow of still-incandescent metal along its interior.

“Aperture diameter is approximately 21 meters,” Peregrine reported, “It looks like whatever did this cauterized its way through the spacedock’s hull on the way out.”

“Regardless, we’re here to see if there’s anyone who needs our help,” Jon declared, “Peri, can you get us any closer to one of those service airlocks?”

“Sorry, love,” Peregrine replied, “There’s not enough room to maneuver in here.”

“We could try the longshoreman’s gantry,” Tallen recommended, “Maybe the dockmaster’s computer will have something on what happened.”

“The dockmaster’s office might also be a good place to tap into station comms and internal sensors,” Misty suggested, “It would make it easier to locate survivors.”

“We’ll start there,” Jon decided, “Peregrine, what are the conditions like out there?”

“Ambient radiation level is 0.23 sieverts per hour,” Peregrine reported, “Radiation protocol level 4 is warranted.”

“All right, let’s do this one by the numbers,” Jon ordered, “Tallen, Misty, we’re going outside. Bring HSFH scrubs and dosimeters.”

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The Ying-Zheng-class destroyer VSCE Ekaladerhan was ugly as sin and twice as graceless. Cursed with large, blocky construction, she would undoubtedly be less aerodynamic than the box she came in, if 5,500-ton warships were delivered from their shipyards in enormous crates.

As she cantankerously lumbered towards EML-1, decelerating on a lambent plume of incandescent deuterium, the ship’s Combat Information Center was abuzz with activity as the crew tried to make sense of the events of the past hour.

The Chief Intelligence Officer of Ekaladerhan was cloistered away from the bustle of the command center outside in his office, analyzing reports on the situation. The biggest stumbling block to getting a cohesive picture was the lack of useful information. Actually, that was the second biggest stumbling block. The actual biggest obstacle was that the captain expected a situation report in ten minutes to prepare for operations as soon as they arrived on site, and he didn’t have any new intelligence to give her.

A sharp knock on the door erupted from the cacophony on the other side of the bulkhead – the buzzer for that door hadn’t worked right since the Kala’s last refit 20 years ago. According to the Chief Engineer, fixing the buzzer meant removing the entire door mount and tearing up a meter and a half of conduit in order to splice in new wiring – because door buzzers were neither primary systems nor essential for combat operations, and as the only way in or out was through the adequately secure CIC, it would have to wait until the next refit or the CIC got trashed by hostile weapons fire.

“Come,” he projected. The percussive prattling of the outside flooded the room as the door slid open, and an Earth Forces officer in espatier gray fatigues stepped through.

“Crewman, shut that damn door!” the intelligence officer barked. “Sorry, INTO,” the interloper apologized, and then pulled the door shut. The noise quieted to merely distracting.

“Report, leftenant,” the INTO ordered. The interloper stood to attention.

“Sir!” the lieutenant said with military sharpness, “I’ve brought the report you asked for.” He handed a small tablet to his superior.

“Put it on the desk.”

“Yes sir,” the lieutenant answered and did what he was told.

“Well?” the INTO asked impatiently, “If you’re just going to stand there, make yourself useful and get me some coffee!”

“Yes sir,” the lieutenant answered again, “Sorry, sir.” He turned about-face and began to slide the door open again.

“Leftenant,” the INTO sighed, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

The lieutenant closed the door again and turned back to face the INTO.

“May I ask what’s on your mind, sir?” the lieutenant asked.

“No,” the INTO began, “Yes. What do you know about EML-1 Colony 7?”

“Number 7 was an agricultural colony,” the lieutenant summarized professionally, “its sole export was bulk soybeans, no different than any of the eleven other colonies at EML-1, or a dozen others at EML-4.”

“My sister was a biologist there, monitoring the soybean crop,” the INTO admitted, “She was going to be married next month, to a water management system engineer on the colony.”

“And you’re worried that she’s dead, sir?”

“I’d like to believe that she was able to get to an emergency shelter, but I doubt it very much, given how quickly things happened.”

The lieutenant sat down across from his superior. “If you like, sir, I could say a prayer for her.”

“If you’re looking for something to do, you might help me make sense of these reports,” the INTO suggested as he dropped another tablet onto the desk in frustration, “I just don’t understand it – a nuclear shaped charge explodes in the dock of an agricultural colony, a civilian freighter under Martian registry disregards space traffic control orders and races to Colony 7 under the guise of rendering humanitarian aid, and no one seems to know anything!”

“Why EML-1 #7?” the lieutenant asked, “Why not the new space city at EML-5? Destroying Colony 7 couldn’t have killed more than a million people, while attacking Cockaigne could have increased fatalities by an entire order of magnitude. Colony 7 doesn’t make sense as a target for a terrorist attack.”

“It wouldn’t even have affected food production much,” the INTO agreed, “Apart from decompression and the structural damage, that colony is virtually intact. The Department of Space Construction could have it back in productive operation in six months. I fail to understand why anyone would have–” he paused as something on the tablet the lieutenant brought him caught his eye. Glancing at its contents, he came to a disturbing realization.

“Leftenant,” he said as he showed him the tablet, “what do you make of this?”

The lieutenant took the tablet. The INTO watched as the more he read, the more things began to click into place, and the more his realization grew. “Mars?” the lieutenant asked.

“Mars.”

“We’d better inform the captain.”

0 notes

theoriginalkidwithapen · 4 years

Text

Principia – De Motu Corporum II

CW: Violence, foul language, gore, amputation, terrorist attack, disaster

“Every body perseveres in its state of rest, or of uniform motion in a right line, unless it is compelled to change that state by forces impressed thereon.”

– Sir Isaac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

Ewan Finchley fidgeted with his wedding ring as he waited in the lobby. While as a public servant of thirty years in the United Earth Ministry of Inquiry, he was no stranger to briefing the Director of his section on the goings-on in the world of organized crime and terrorism, this was the first time he was summoned to a joint briefing with the Minister for Inquiry herself. He had to give the best presentation in the room – his section, and quite possibly his career, depended on it. Rumor had it that, ever since his section apprehended the leadership of the Lunar crime syndicate simply called “The Organization” and ended a 50-year regime of corruption, murder, and narcotics dealing, there was little demand for organized crime policing in the august eyes of the Global Parliament, and his section was up for consideration for budget cuts.

A rather short-sighted decision, Finchley thought, especially given the new evidence he was about to present that would conclusively demonstrate that the power vacuum left in The Organization had recently been filled, meaning that all their hard-won victory had bought them was a brief reprieve instead of a permanent change in the status quo.

“You may go in now, Mr. Finchley,” the Minister’s Public Secretary said. Time to make Section 5 proud.

Finchley slipped his ring back onto his finger, stood up, and entered the Minister’s office. It was an ostentatious wood-paneled affair, a 22nd century reproduction of 1960s boardroom finishing – it reminded him of the lair of a supervillain from period spy movies.

Including the Minister, her Private Secretary, and Private Undersecretary, there were 12 people in the room, seated around a wooden conference table with decor matching the rest of the room. Finchley immediately noted the presence of the Director of Section 1 – Foreign Investigations – as well as the Parliamentary Observer and his stenographer. Despite the perfection of dictation software more than 200 years ago, tradition – as well as the law – required that a human being take the official minutes, especially if they were for a report to Parliament.

Finchley took the empty seat next to his superior, Director Salazar Amaro, at the table. The door closed, and panels in the walls slid back, revealing monitors concealed behind them, which immediately activated and displayed the Seal of the Ministry of Inquiry.

“I’d like to begin by thanking you all for appearing at this hour on a Friday,” the Minister stated in what Finchley suspected was a not-so-subtle reference to her hijab, “I would also like to remind you all that this meeting is classified Ultraviolet, and that apart from official documentation to be shared only with persons of the appropriate security access, nothing said or presented during this meeting is to be discussed beyond these walls. I would like to call upon the Director of Section 1, Mr. Yen, to make the opening statement.” Yen Shang, a diminutive Cantonese man who unironically wore a suit with a Mandarin collar, stood up to speak. He drew a pair of corrective lenses – an affectation in an era of advanced corrective surgery – perched them on the bridge of his nose, and summoned a holographic document in front of him with an almost casual gesture.

“This meeting of the Ministry of Inquiry Directors has been called to determine whether the services of certain sections as complete divisions are required any further,” he read from the azure spectral brief hovering as if he were holding it in his hand, “Section 1 Undersecretary Alin Vasilescu will present our argument in summary.”

Do your worst, Finchley dared silently, I insist.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Darkness gradually turned to light as Sara regained consciousness. She could make out four light sources in front of her, arranged in an all-too-familiar pattern. I’m sick of that goddamned ceiling, Sara thought as she recognized it as belonging to her cell. The ventilation grille still had that dent from the last time she went berserk. Clearly they’d sedated her this time. Sara sat up, stiff and sore. “Fuck…” she muttered. Out of the corner of her eye, Sara saw motion in the cell across from hers. Turning her head, she saw no fewer than four security guards escorting an elegantly-dressed woman inside.

“Hey, guard!” Sara called, “What the fuck happened to me at my therapy session!?”

“Oh look,” one of the guards said, “La Puta is finally awake!”

“Yeah, looks like you got triggered bad back there,” the guard continued as he swaggered over towards Sara, “You got crazy loco, and tried to tear that shrink apart with your bare hands! It took a flashbang to the face to put you down!”

“Sounds pretty nasty,” Sara commented.

“You fucked him up so hard, he’s gonna be in a body cast for months,” the guard leered. He stopped at the door and conspicuously checked her out. “You know…” he said as he made a profoundly indiscreet advance at her, “I could get you a day off pickin’ soybeans if you showed me some of that spirit. I like me a rough rider…”

Before Sara had a chance to refuse his offer with a few cutting remarks about his questionable parentage and insufficiently-sized sexual anatomy, the entire cell block shook violently as a rambunctious rumble reverberated through the room.

“What the fuck was that!?” one of the other guards yelled as the lights turned red and klaxons sounded.

“Decompression alarm!” the first guard shouted as the room broke out into chaos and confusion.

All of a sudden, everything but the alarms went silent. Sara could almost hear the creaking of steel and polymers – she certainly felt the deck pitch and heave beneath her feet, and from everyone else’s expressions it was clear that she wasn’t the only one who was afraid.

“Espinosa, Kwan, Akash!” the second guard barked, “Go to the equipment locker and get decompression gear for all of us! I’m gonna keep trying to contact dispatch!”

There was a loud rumbling, which quickly grew to a roar as the room shook as if it were in an earthquake. A mighty gust of wind blew the guards off their feet and out the door. The second guard desperately grabbed onto the threshold, but this last-ditch effort at self-preservation ended in a bone-crunching snap and a spray of blood as the blast doors slammed shut, severing his arm at the elbow.

The gale died down the second the doors sealed.

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“This concludes my report,” the deputy director of Section 3 wrapped up. As she returned to her seat, Director Salazar Amaro rose. “To deliver Section 5’s rebuttal, I would like to present Inspector Ewan Finchley, of the same section,” he announced, “Inspector Finchley was instrumental in Section 5’s recent arrests of the leadership of the criminal cartel known as ‘The Organization.’” Finchley rose. “Minister, directors, observers for Parliament,” he began, “We have seen many fantastic studies, projections, spreadsheets, cost-benefit analyses, and other data and insights on how the Ministry’s resources can be most efficiently allocated, and all of it – all of it – leads to a recommendation to restructure Ministry expenditures.

“It is the observation of Director Amaro and myself that the sole purpose of this joint briefing is to justify the elimination of Section 5 from the Ministry’s budget and dividing its organised crime investigation and counterterrorism functions among the Ministry’s other sections.” Finchley got a small amount of satisfaction at the look of indignation on the faces of the Parliamentary Observer and the other section directors.

“I bring to Section 5’s defence not bureaucratic figures and craven rationalisations,” Finchley continued, “but evidence that Section 5’s services are still required, as is.”

“I would have expected Section 5 to conjure up all kinds of fascinating evidence to preserve its lavish misappropriation of Ministry resources,” Mr. Yen commented, “but the simple truth is that Section 5 has outlived its usefulness.”

“With all due respect to the director of Section 1,” Finchley countered, “that would be a premature assessment, as I will demonstrate.”

Mr. Yen sat down disgruntledly. Finchley’s face may have betrayed a smirk.

“Computer, access presentation file hotkeyed Finchley-036 and display,” Finchley ordered. The room obeyed, and a holographic slideshow materialized behind him. “On the 14th of June, 2292 at precisely 07:18 and 31 seconds East Africa Time, agents of the Ministry of Inquiry, Section 5 raided 47 facilities – 15 compounds throughout South America, Australasia, Eurasia, and Antarctica; 8 space stations in Low Earth Orbit; compartments on 9 orbital colonies in the Earth Sphere; an illegal mining base on Cruithne; an unlicensed gambling den on Eros; narcotics laboratories on Pallas and Vesta; an annex in the Discretion Compartment of Spoke Three on Ceres–”

Finchley’s presentation disappeared as the monitors in the room turned a threatening hue of red and displayed the words “DANGER – TERROR ATTACK IN PROGRESS” in 12 different languages – French, Igbo, Yoruba, Amharic, Spanish, Arabic, Hindi, Chinese, English, Japanese, and Russian. The Parliamentary Observer and the Minister for Inquiry appeared briefly distracted – behavior typical of people listening to a message over an implanted inner earphone – before the Minister addressed the room. “I have just been informed that a terrorist attack in Earth territory has just begun,” she announced, “The Ministry of Security have issued a Code Red lockdown alert. No one is permitted to enter or leave this room for the duration.”

“Where did they strike?” a shocked Mr. Yen nervously inquired, “Venus? Hygiea?”

“An orbital colony at Earth-Moon Lagrange-One.”

A terrorist attack in the Earth Sphere, 384,400 kilometres away. That’s far too close, Finchley thought to himself.

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Words cannot adequately describe the cataclysmic scope of the destruction of a space colony. Despite being immense structures half a kilometer across and five kilometers long, they were incredibly fragile constructs held together by the tensile strength of their structural members, and structural failure could easily cause the force of the station’s rotation to tear itself apart.

This is because in order for a structure 500 meters across to simulate one Earth gravity at its extremities, it must rotate more than 1.33 times per minute, granting objects there a velocity of 70 meters per second in the direction of rotation, or more than seven times the force of Earth’s gravity. A structural failure at that speed could cause the entire colony to explosively delaminate, casting millions of tons of scrap metal in all directions at a rate of 252 kilometers per hour – more than enough to destroy any spacecraft unfortunate enough to collide with it.

Fortunately for the people of Earth, this was not how EML-1 #7 “Fasal” died. An immense jet of white-hot flame exploded from the docking area at an angle against the station’s direction of rotation. The jet only blew for a moment before it faded, replaced with a spiraling shower of incandescent metal fragments. The mighty station shuddered for a second, and then what remained of the dock burst open, evacuating the station’s atmosphere and everything not tightly secured out into space.

Over a million people lived on Fasal. None could yet say how many survived the disaster.

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Out of the estimated 400 billion stars in the Milky Way, approximately 9,100 of them are visible to the human eye from Earth. Naturally, when a new light appears in the sky, astronomers take notice, no matter how briefly it shines.

Neither Jon nor Misty were astronomers or astrophysicists, but as spacecraft crew they were familiar with the location and appearance of most celestial objects. A brief flash brighter than any planet or star as seen from Earth apart from the sun, in the direction of the first Earth-Moon Lagrange Point drew their attention away from their stargazing.

“Jon! Misty!” Tallen barked over their suit radios, “We have a situation!”

“What kind of situation?” Misty asked with concern.

“Just get back in here!”

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“Minutes ago, the agricultural orbital colony EML-1 #7, ‘Fasal,’ suddenly exploded in what early reports are calling a controlled thermonuclear detonation…” the news anchor began to the backdrop of a clip of the ill-fated space station exploding, repeated ad nauseam.

“Holy shit…” Tallen exclaimed in a whisper as he watched the spectacle of repetitive cataclysm unfold on one of Peregrine’s monitors. Jon, followed by Misty, climbed through the hatch to the control deck, still in their spacesuits. “Report!” Jon barked.

“An orbital colony at EML-1 just exploded,” Peregrine’s soprano voice lyricized over the speakers, “Micronesia T.C. is hailing.”

“Put ‘em on, Peri!” Jon ordered as he leapt into the pilot’s seat. He began to strap himself in, a habit acquired from years of experience.

“Micronesia T.C., this is Manju Ray,” Jon replied as he answered the hail, “Please advise, over.”

“Manju Ray, be advised – one of our space colonies has exploded,” the traffic controller responded, “The entire EML-1 traffic control area has been declared a no-fly zone under the jurisdiction of United Earth Space Peacekeeping Operations. Reorient to point retrograde and burn 34 meters-per-second to avoid entering the restricted area, over.”

“Negative, T.C.,” Jon replied with irritation. A course change away from EML-1 meant that instead of delivering their cargo directly to Surveyor City by way of the Grimaldi Space Elevator, they would have to hire a lander to do the job, which would be costly and time consuming. After the long haul from Saturn, they didn’t have enough food, water, or air to wait around for a berth at another station. “We intend to render aid in search and rescue efforts, over.”

They’d also miss their rendezvous with Sharqi’s associate. Even though it was unlikely that she survived, they could still try to make the pickup while doing the good works.

“All right, people!” Jon called out, “Strap in! Peregrine, I need a minimum duration maneuver plot to that space colony now!”

“Coming up now,” Peregrine responded as Tallen and Misty followed Jon’s order and took their seats.

The plot appeared on the flight control monitor. It was a map of the Earth Sphere, denoting traffic control zones, the locations and orbits of other spacecraft, markers for Peregrine and her destination, and the projected course and relevant data. The proposed trajectory was unlike any of the orbits on the chart – in a world of ellipses, conics, paraboloids, and the occasional hyperboloid, this one was a straight line, its path neatly divided in half by an arrow rounded back on itself like an ouroboros – an icon that represented a maneuver called a skew-flip, where the spacecraft cuts all thrust and rotates to face the reverse of its previous heading. It was a maneuver rarely necessary except for a course change like this one – a brachistochrone trajectory. While horribly inefficient, it was also the quickest way to one’s destination.

“Your assistance is not required,” the traffic controller replied, “Alter course immediately.”

“Negative, T.C.,” Jon argued, “we have limited life support aboard. Waiting in orbit indefinitely is not an option, we must proceed to EML-1. We can rendezvous with the relief effort to resupply.”

“This is wrong…” Misty commented to herself with concern as Jon continued to argue with the traffic controller.

“Negative, Manju Ray,” the traffic controller countered, “Do not proceed to EML-1. Reorient to your radial vector and burn for EML-2. You will be able to resupply there.”

“Enough of this bullshit,” Jon muttered, “Peri, release hands-on control to me.”

“Kinky,” Peregrine replied playfully, “This is handoff to you.”

“Micronesia, Manju Ray,” Jon announced, determined, “Under the Rescue Agreement of 1968, this ship is obligated to render aid and assistance to any spacecraft in distress. We are therefore proceeding to EML-1 under our responsibility to detect and avoid. Be advised, our flight plan is being amended to include a brachistochrone approach maneuver in T-minus three-one seconds, over.”

Jon had just invoked a seldom-used navigational rule that dated back to the age of sail – when a ship was a de facto city-state with her captain as absolute ruler. Under this rule, the captain could take responsibility for navigation without regard for the wishes of an external authority. This had the side effect of ending any traffic control aid and was generally inadvisable, especially at spacecraft maneuvering speeds. This ancient tradition – nearly 800 years old – carried over to aviation and later, aerospace navigation, and remained a crucial part of a captain’s authority.

Now, all that remained was to see if Traffic Control would honor his decision. Everyone in the room waited with bated breath.

“Uh, Manju Ray?” the traffic controller responded after a long, awkward pause, “Micronesia. Roger, service is terminated. Proceed on your own responsibility, and retain your current beacon code. Micronesia out.”

“Roger, Manju Ray out,” Jon replied, and closed the channel, “All right, everyone! Brace yourselves for 7.3gs! We’ll accelerate for 32 minutes, 57 seconds, then skew-flip and brake for another 32 and 57. Peregrine, send a tightbeam to Union Hall explaining our situation and attach all relevant flight recorder logs.” Jon opened the throttle, and Peregrine’s main engine roared to life with incandescent fury. The seats in the control compartment tilted back to a reclining position to ease the effects of extreme acceleration on the crew.

For a Martian like Jon, one Earth gravity was difficult to endure, and for a Spaceborn like Misty, it was punitive. Seven gravities, the equivalent of 68.6 meters per second of acceleration, was a crushing, immobilizing, oppressive, sadistic, flattening, choking, heart-stopping, smothering, compressing, callous, forbidding, conquering force which the human body was never built to endure for long. While the acceleration chairs and reclined position helped, it was still a strenuous, grueling ordeal, and while Peregrine was equipped with acceleration suits, there wasn’t enough time to don them.

“Sorry about this, Misty,” Jon said regretfully. This wasn’t going to be easy for her.

“Don’t blame yourself, anata… This has to be done…” Misty panted breathily as she began to fade from consciousness. The abyssal strain of acceleration was rapidly overwhelming her fragile spaceborn body.

“Peri…” Jon groaned as his lungs stubbornly resisted his will to do more than breathe shallowly, “I need you to be ready to take over in case I black out…” “You got it, commander,” Peregrine replied, unaffected by the forces her astral heart inflicted on the crew.

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It had been nearly 15 minutes since Finchley’s abortive presentation had been interrupted by the destruction of an orbital colony and the projected deaths of over a million people. It would be over an hour before the first CETU patrol destroyer would arrive to secure the area, and another day before the first relief effort could get underway – in that time, many of the survivors could die. It was infuriating to watch this tragedy unfold and be unable to do anything about it.

He may not be able to do anything about this catastrophe, but he might be able to prevent the next one.

“This tragedy could have been prevented,” he said to the preoccupied room, “if Section 5 had been granted the resources we requested last year.”

“I beg your pardon?” the Parliamentary Observer asked with rehearsed indignance.

“Minister,” Finchley addressed her formally, “I have reason to believe that the destruction of the colony at EML-1 was a terrorist action ordered by Mars. My presentation today was meant to establish the connection between The Organisation and Martian Covert Operations. With your permission, I would like to resume.” The Minister nodded in approval. “Computer,” Finchley ordered, “resume presentation.” Finchley’s slideshow failed to appear.

“Computer,” Finchley dictated impatiently, one syllable at a time, “resume presentation.” The slideshow was conspicuous by its absence.

“What the hell is wrong with this bloody thing?” he asked rhetorically.

“We are in a Level Red lockdown, Inspector Finchley,” Mr. Yen patronized, “All computer functions except for essential operations are suspended to devote as many resources as possible to Intelligence system processing.”

“Fine,” Finchley sniffed, “You may examine my evidence once this crisis is over.”

Finchley straightened his posture, and continued with the air of the expert he was. “In the months leading up to the recent arrests of The Organisation’s leadership, we were able to identify a large number of transactions between shell corporations known to front for The Organisation and the Mars Colonial Militia. From what we have been able to determine, The Organisation smuggles materiel and personnel in and out of areas under Earth jurisdiction, as well as supply and maintain safehouses for Martian covert operatives in exchange for funding and use of some of their advanced technology.”

“Inspector,” the Minister inquired, “are you saying that these people are aiding and abetting a foreign adversary?”

“Yes, Minister,” Finchley answered, “We are confident that this is the case.”

“However,” Mr. Yen interjected, “wasn’t The Organization’s leadership crippled by Ministry raids? Surely they cannot be in any position to aid anyone.”

“That was the conclusion we came to in the months following the raids,” Finchley clarified, “but that preliminary assessment has since proven to be inaccurate. Seven months ago, we began to receive reports from our undercover informants in The Organisation that indicated that someone had begun to fill that power vacuum.”

“Internal politics?”

“Yes, Mr. Yen. The person of interest is named Juda Sharqi – a 51-year-old Selenite, male, born in Surveyor City, clawed his way up the ranks from a common grunt to an influential information broker, although not enough to attract our attention at the time. He was able to leverage the information at his disposal to blackmail his enemies and consolidate power. It is our determination that he could not have accomplished this in so short a time without outside help.”

“The Martians, you mean,” the Parliamentary Observer concluded.

“Yes, sir.” Finchley confirmed.

“And if Section 5 had been allocated the Intelligence processing time requested,” the Parliamentary Observer continued with interest, “this catastrophe could have been avoided?”

“In all likelihood, yes sir.” Finchley answered, “The indications were all there, it would just be a matter of collating and processing the information.”

“Director Amaro,” the Observer addressed Finchley’s superior, “do you concur with your subordinate’s assessment?”

“I would not have asked him here if I were not confident in Inspector Finchley’s conclusion,” Amaro replied.

“Well then, Minister,” the Observer declared, “with your recommendation, I will draught a proposal to Parliament requesting additional resources allocated to Section 5, for countering the threat of Martian covert operatives and their co-conspirators.”

“That is outrageous!” Mr. Yen roared as he abruptly stood up, “Foreign counterintelligence clearly falls under the exclusive purview of Section 1!”

“Zimi Beli!” the Minister shouted at Mr. Yen, who sheepishly sat down and shut up as she had ordered.

At that moment, the monitors all changed color from red to white. “All clear,” announced a synthetic voice over the public address system, “All personnel, please return to your scheduled routine.”

“Well, I suppose that’s enough for today,” the Minister declared, “Meeting adjourned.”

As they began to file out of the room, Amaro discreetly stopped Finchley. “Well done, Ewan,” he conspired, “You may have just secured Section 5’s place as the dominant intelligence agency on the planet.”

“Yes, sir,” Finchley answered.

0 notes

theoriginalkidwithapen · 4 years

Text

Principia – De Motu Corporum I

CW: Violence, foul language, fear, traumatic events, attempted sexual assault, blood, death, despair, references to alcohol and drug use. “The ‘vis insita,’ or innate force of matter, is a power of resisting, by which every body, as much as it lies, endeavours to preserve in its present state, whether it be of rest, or of moving uniformly in a right line.”

– Sir Issac Newton, “Philosophae Naturalis Principia Mathematica”

It was the last decade of the 23rd century. The planet Earth, despite its diminished resplendence due to global climate change, remained the pale blue dot it had always been. In the late 21st century, the nations of Earth constructed an immense halo of solar power satellites in geostationary orbit – 35,786 kilometers above the Earth’s equator – and pierced it with three 100,000-kilometer-long space elevators to service it, spaced equidistantly throughout. With fastidious maintenance and relatively minor upgrades, the array continued to function for nearly two centuries.

This spectacular feat of engineering lent the planet the appearance of a cloudy sapphire inlaid within a delicate gossamer ring of gold and silver. This wispy aura served to transmit the electrical power it collected from sunlight to the planet below, keeping the night at bay for the 40 billion humans that called it home.

Keeping starvation at bay for these teeming masses required dozens of immense space stations dedicated to agriculture, located in the regions of space where the Earth’s gravity and that of its argent moon canceled each other out.

EML-1 colony #7, “Fasal,” was typical of an agricultural base; a hollow cylinder the size of a city that rolled on its center so that objects within fell towards its inner face at a rate of 980 centimeters per second – a familiar facsimile of Earth’s gravity at sea level to its inhabitants. The station’s internal volume was dominated by gleaming white vertical farms, which used millions of hydroponics trays to grow its main crop; the humble soybean.

Like clockwork, every time the Moon rose above the horizon at the twin cities of Asaba and Onitsha, which straddled the Niger River, this colony harvested, packed, and shipped to Earth 1,000 tons of soybeans, each grown in the station’s climate-controlled environment – 30° Celsius, free of unwanted pests and diseases, fed clean water with the right mineral content – ideal conditions for growing the perfect soybean.

It was in one of these many vertical farms that Sara Reynolds toiled, removing hydroponics trays from their slots and carrying them to the diagnostics stations to be monitored by the biologists charged with the crop’s wellbeing, and then returning them to their particular shelves. 120 days after planting, the farm’s entire crop was due to be harvested – a laborious process that required a thousand worker-hours of back-breaking work, even in the 23rd century. This was the daily routine for Sara and a quarter million other laborers in the colony who could charitably call themselves soybean farmers.

The hydroponics bay where Sara worked was hot, humid, and sterile. Everyone wore freshly laundered uniforms of bleached white synthetic fabric; a tunic with long sleeves and a tight-fitting hood, gloves, leggings with integrated feet, a face mask, and protective glasses. These precautions were to protect the soybeans from the hot, sweaty laborers and their potentially virulent microbiomes.

It had been more than six hours since Sara had had the opportunity to sit down, or even stand still for more than a moment; a natural consequence of having your working pace computer-monitored and allocated down to the second. She was exhausted, and actually looking forward to returning to her cell and collapsing onto her bunk for a few blissful hours of unconsciousness before prying herself out of bed to do yet another 14-hour shift.

Too bad she wasn’t allowed alcohol. Getting juiced to the gills every night might actually have made this workload bearable. Quitting wasn’t an option, either – even if she had a say in the matter, far too much money had been spent on sending her up from Minneapolis to justify shipping her back to that shithole. Plus, it’s not like there were any jobs for her there, anyway.

“Shift six has ended,” the dulcet tone of the station’s administrative cybersophont came over the P.A., “Shift six has ended. All technicians, please report to your designated equipment depository immediately.” Hallelujah, Sara thought as she dreamed of dying from alcohol poisoning. She returned the 20-kilo hydroponics tray in her hands to its shelf, reconnected it to its umbilicals, and shuffled into the line of her coworkers leading to the exit.

It was an impatient few minutes until the last of them were through and the door closed behind them. Once the lights changed from red to green, she and everyone else were free to disrobe.

“You fellas catch the game yesterday?” a Middle-Eastern coworker, maybe from India or something, called out as she pulled her tunic over her head. The room was packed so tightly that Sara struggled to remove either her hood or her mask.

“Oh, yes,” another Indian coworker said as he peeled his sweat-soaked leggings off, “India won by seven wickets!”

“The umpire’s call was bullshit!” the first coworker exclaimed. Probably not India, Sara thought as she was finally able to free a few locks of her flaxen hair, Maybe it’s the other one…

“There’s no way Shirazi was LBW!” the first coworker continued. Here we go again, Sara thought with great annoyance. Don’t these people talk about anything else?

“Do I detect a Pakistan fan, salty that her favourite team have a rubbish captain?” the second coworker inquired jocularly. Definitely the other one, Sara determined. “It’s not the captain,” Ms. Pakistan argued, “It’s biased umpires choosing the winners that get me starkers.” There was enough of a gap in the crowd for Sara to finally free her face from her now thoroughly soiled mask, an act she immediately regretted as her senses were assaulted by the pungent stench of a dozen sweaty people in a confined space. It might have been better to have left the mask on, no matter how damp it may have gotten after 14 hours of being breathed through, Sara mulled. She deposited it in one of the laundry bags lining the walls.

“What about you, Reynolds?” Ms. Pakistan asked. Goddammit, Sara thought to herself, Don’t drag me into your stupid fucking argument. I don’t have the free time to watch sports games like you do.

“Do you believe that biased umpires violate the Spirit of Cricket?” Ms. Pakistan continued, clearly expecting an answer.

Sara fought to keep her temper in check. All this conversation did was remind her of how grossly unfair the whole situation was. Her entire life reduced to hard labor and interrupted sleep, interspersed with daily therapy sessions. Even though she had to work here until the day she died with no possibility of parole, they still insisted that she be “rehabilitated.” Plus, at least half of the other people in the room were volunteers who were getting paid for their work.

“I don’t have an opinion,” Sara grumbled, “I’m… American.”

“So, what sport do you follow?” Ms. Pakistan interrogated in her particular infuriatingly pretentious accent, once considered refined and cultured by the ancient British, “Hockey?”

“Mixed Martial Arts?” Mr. India chimed in.

“Yankee Murder Rugby?” Ms. Pakistan escalated with a ludicrous description of American Football. Everyone else in the room laughed at the racist caricature she painted of the moronic, uncultured, and blusterous American they all saw in Sara.

“I don’t have time for any of that shit,” Sara snapped back with barely contained rage, “so don’t drag me into your stupid fights!”

“Woah,” Ms. Pakistan snarked, “I seem to have struck a nerve…” The laughter continued to peal.

That was the moment when Sara’s extraordinarily short fuse burnt out – what little patience she normally had was finally expended.

“Strike this nerve, bitch!” Sara exploded as she slugged Ms. Pakistan across the jaw with a strong right hook, knocking her to the floor.

“What are you, crazy!?” Ms. Pakistan cried out in shock, wiping the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand.

Sara leapt upon the woman, screaming in incoherent rage, adrenaline fueling her ecstatic frenzy.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

“...And what made you want to attack her?” Sara’s psychotherapist asked, drawing her out of her reverie and back to the present, in her daily therapy session. The room was painted that stupid shade of mint green that was supposed to be calming, there was a large decorative bamboo plant in the corner, and a small potted cactus standing on the short table between her and Dr. Jamaica, and the light reggae muzak playing ambiently wasn’t helping Sara’s mood.

“She wouldn’t fucking shut up about that stupid game!” Sara said irately, her blood still boiling from recounting her experience, and how she wished it could have turned out.

“Were you angry because everyone else understood the game, and you didn’t?” Dr. Jamaica asked calmly, the perfect opposite of Sara’s volatile demeanor.

“No one understands Cricket,” Sara grumbled, “the game is fucking incomprehensible.”

“Could you describe what this incident made you want to do with her?”

Sara immersed herself, once again, into the heart-pounding memory of the incident the other day, and found herself swept up in her emotions.

“I wanted to make her face look like a goddamned blueberry,” Sara fantasized with rising excitation, “I wanted the deck to run red with her blood. I wanted her to look me in the eye before I slammed her head into the floor, again and again until she stopped moving!” Sara found the mental images her words evoked quite satisfying.

“Well, I’m glad you chose not to act on those feelings,” Dr. Jamaica said after taking a beat, unintentionally acting like a deadpan snarker. Sara felt that he might have been making fun of her. Dr. Jamaica clinically made a note on his tablet.

“Your self-control is improving,” Dr. Jamaica mentioned, “If this had happened six months ago, you might have actually tried to kill her.”

“Not my fault I’m a fucking psychopath,” Sara said discontentedly.

“We’ve been over this, Sara. You don’t have psychopathy, you simply have trouble controlling these emotional outbursts of yours,” the doctor continued dispassionately, “You’ve come a long way from the violent person you were a decade ago.” He pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose.

Sara hated this part of the sessions, where he opened up old wounds in a misguided attempt to help her “face her trauma” so that she could “conquer” it. All it really did was force her to relive old and terrifying memories.

Normally, she was able to maintain enough composure to weather the emotional tumult that came with the experience, but after recounting the incident with her coworkers, Sara was unsure whether she could control herself today.

The doctor’s words awoke memories of the ghettoes on the outskirts of Minneapolis. The reek of the bogs along the banks of the Mississippi River; stark, crumbling concrete buildings decaying from centuries of acid rain; sweltering heat and humidity and overcast skies; overcrowded enclosures secreting patent poverty away from the notice of the entitled, exiguous denizens of the stately spire of glass and steel which marked the city center; dark, filthy alleys where the desperate and despairing frittered away their lives in futility.

“According to your file, before you were institutionalised for Stage III Violent Mania, you murdered a peacekeeper in cold blood.”

Sara remembered the encounter like it was yesterday, and she knew that it didn’t happen that way. It was a dark, rainy night. She was loitering across the alley from a pair of prostitutes soliciting their services to the passersby. She was there to protect them from the freaks and the forcible who would threaten them. It was dangerous work, but it paid well enough to buy the occasional moonshine-or-narcotic-fueled day off, or an hour or two of passion in their accommodating embrace.

One of them walked away on the arm of a government functionary – maybe a supervisor at the local commissary – when a federal army patrol stopped by. Soldiers made the best johns, according to Sara’s employers. They paid well, and were usually repeat customers, although they were often domineering, and sometimes abusive.

Something was wrong. Negotiations didn’t typically take this long, especially if there were two of them. They started to get confrontational. One of them began to reach for his nightstick.

Turn around, walk away, and pretend you saw and heard nothing: that would have been the smart thing to do. Clearly, Sara wasn’t that smart.

She had a knife in her hand, she strode over and issued her challenge. The two soldiers laughed at her, the scrawny girl with the dull, rusted blade. She attacked, the nearest soldier disarmed her effortlessly and pinned her to the wall. She briefly saw the other one do the same to her charge before her assailant forced her head to face him and covered her mouth with his hand. She tried to struggle, but he had her completely overpowered.

The soldier leered at her with sadistic glee. The excited rhythm of his escalating breathing, the growing, firming protrusion as he forced his hips into hers, the relish with which he described the unspeakable acts he intended to inflict upon her, the way he reduced her entire being to an object to sate his appetites to his personal satisfaction, the utter helplessness she felt as he began to turn his perverse fantasies into horrifying reality – all of it made her feel a terrible, choking, paralyzing, unctious, enveloping, crushing, sinking, viscous fear, the kind that breaks even the strongest wills.

She had to get out of there. There was no way out, but she needed to escape.

“You stole his weapon, and used it to kill him.”

That part was true. She did not know how she managed it, but she somehow got her hand on his sidearm and in her panic, she shot him in the stomach. While the body armor the soldier wore was designed to deflect bullets even more powerful than those his pistol used, Sara had pressed the barrel right against it, and at that range those bullets could still penetrate it. She didn’t know how many times she pulled the trigger, she kept shooting him until he fell on his back and stopped moving.

“You became a murderer at fifteen years old.”

That’s not how it happened. As her lawyer had explained in the trial, she didn’t murder him. She shot him in self-defense. Not that it mattered. In lawsuits against the army, the army always won.

She felt a brief euphoria, like drunkenness but momentary. It was when she saw the body of the soldier lying in front of her, the look of shock on his face, his gaping mouth filling with rainwater, his spilling blood clouding the water around him a sanguine hue, the gun in her trembling, blood-soaked hands, they all pointed to the inescapable truth that, one way or another, her life was over.

“How does that make you feel?”

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In one forceful motion, Sara flipped the short table between them, screaming in a berserk rage. She grabbed a standing lamp and smashed it across the doctor’s face, sending him and the chair he sat upon tumbling over.

“Security!” the doctor cried out in terror, cowering on his back, “Security, help!” The standing lamp now useless to her, she gripped the decorative bamboo and raised it over her head with both hands, ready to bring it crashing down on top of him.

At that moment, the door was kicked open with a crunch, and two armed men in espatier-gray camouflage burst in, submachine guns leveled at Sara.

“Drop the weapon!” one of them yelled.

The red dots of laser sights dancing across Sara’s chest drew her attention away from the doctor. She threw herself recklessly at the security guards, roaring non-verbally.

She hadn’t gone two paces before she was thrown to the floor by a concussive force, accompanied by a blinding flash of light and a deafening, thunderous bang. Sara’s rapid journey to unconsciousness was heralded by a high-pitched ringing whine.

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The two main gateways to the Earth Sphere were located at the second and third Lagrange points in the Earth-Moon system. Lagrange-Two was located opposite the Earth of the Moon, and was primarily a departure point to the other planets in the solar system.

Lagrange-Three, on the other hand, lay on the side opposite the Moon of the Earth, and followed the Moon’s orbit exactly. Spacecraft entering the Earth Sphere from the rest of the solar system tended to pass through Lagrange-Three, either to rendezvous with an Earthly destination, or to exploit the planet’s gravity to gain speed or change course with minimal expenditure of precious propellant.

The main advantage of Lagrange-Three as an arrival point was that for nearly 385,000 kilometers in every direction – the distance between Earth and its moon – it was almost devoid of objects. This calculable-but-unfathomable expanse made for an ideal buffer zone for the safe operation of the thermonuclear fusion rockets – colloquially called “starbulbs” after their superficial resemblance to ancient incandescent lamps, but with a miniaturized toroidal sun in the center instead of a lambent metal filament – in use by interplanetary vessels. After all, the drive plumes from such a mighty apparatus burned with the fury of the Sun’s corona – best that other craft gave their tails a wide berth.

Transiting to a lower orbit from Lagrange-Three, Peregrine was propelled by such a device. She was generally arrow-shaped, if the head were a sphere and the fletchings were aluminum whiskers extruding from her gleaming wasp-waisted propulsion stage.

Peregrine listened to the hum of Earth’s magnetic field, felt the caress of the solar wind on her hull, watched the goings-on of the crew within her, and monitored the progress of a program being loaded into her active memory – one designed to protect her from the humans of Earth.

It was important for Peregrine to conceal her true nature from the Earthers. She had heard stories about what they did to cybersophonts that weren’t… controlled… to their satisfaction, and she had no desire to be lobotomized or dismantled.

Peregrine wasn’t merely the ship’s computer. She was the ship.

Her crew were different from the Earthers – Martians had always treated cyphonts as equals, after all. They understood that sapience begot personhood on some level, at least.

There was a message being received by her main communications array. Time to pipe it down to the control deck like a good little macro before the senders got suspicious. Channel open.

The control deck consisted of six acceleration couches facing outward, each with controls mounted on the arms. The captain, a tall, thin man with roguishly handsome features and skin the color of vanilla named Jon Orvar, was in the flight control seat.

“Manju Ray, this is Micronesia Space Traffic Control,” the voice coming over the radio said, “Please transmit your flight plan and lading, over.”

“Micronesia Traffic Control,” Jon replied with practiced ease, “this is Manju Ray. Transmitting FP&L to you now. We are on a ballistic trajectory to EML-1, transporting assorted hydrocarbons to Surveyor City and consumer goods to Terrordrome. Yours is the last Earth traffic control zone on our course until EML-1, over.” EML-1 was spacer shorthand for the Lagrange-One point located precisely between the Earth and the Moon.

“Hauling some Titan Tea to the Moon, Manju Ray?” The traffic controller inquired jocularly.

“Straight from the refineries over Saturn,” Jon replied.

“Well, you oil barons shouldn’t run into any problems on your current trajectory. We’ll advise you if anything should change that. Micronesia out,” the traffic controller said as Tallen Olayinka floated down from the main computer compartment above. The man was an ebony giant – 212 centimeters tall and built like a statuesque demigod – and neatly brought himself to a stop on the deck.

“Acknowledged, Manju Ray out,” Jon signed off.

“I’ve worked out those bugs in the Nadleehi Protocol,” Tallen reported after Jon closed the channel, “With any luck, Peregrine should look like a conventional mainframe to a cursory inspection.”

“Pretending to be a dumb expert system feeds my inferiority complex,” Peregrine’s soprano voice self-deprecated over the control deck speakers.

“Of course it does, dear,” Tallen dismissed playfully.

Jon turned to face Tallen. “That’s good to hear,” Jon replied, ignoring Peregrine’s interjection, “The last thing we need is to have Peregrine impounded because she happens to be a cyphont.”

Tallen crossed his ample arms. “Her engine alone raises some eyebrows ‘round here,” he speculated, “The Earth government isn’t very keen on civilians or foreigners operating terawatt-range fusion drives.”

“Incoming transmission over Astronet,” Peregrine reported, “Sender ID masked, and they’re using IRONGOLDFISH encryption keys.”

“That sounds familiar,” Jon remarked, “Put it up.”

“Yes, dear,” Peregrine replied. The flight control display minimized and a videochat window opened up in its place. The image on the screen was shadowy and secretive, showing the silhouette of a man in a hat profiled against a cyan glow.

“Now there’s the face that sank a thousand ships,” the man spoke with a heavily distorted voice. It was clear that despite his precautions to hide his identity behind layers of encryption lockouts, he was taking no chances that he might be inadvertently identified through the analog hole. “Did you call just to insult me?” Jon asked.

“No,” the mystery man answered, “I’ve called because I need a favour.” “A favor?” Jon repeated, intrigued, “This’ll be good.”

“Don’t enjoy this too much,” the mystery man admonished, “An associate of mine has run into a spot of trouble, and I need you to extract them and bring them to me.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“My associate was investigating something which I think you would find rather interesting. I’d be willing to share what information they learned.”

“That’s suspiciously generous of you.” “My benevolence is renowned across the entire system.” “What kind of information are we talking about?”

“Not over Astronet. We’ll meet at the usual place to make the exchange.”

“All right. Who and where?”

“Her name is Ayane Miyamoto. She was last seen in EML-1 Colony 7 less than seven hours ago.”

“We’ll be there,” Jon said as he logged off, and then turned to face Tallen.

“What do you make of that, Tallen?

“It’s certainly intriguing,” Tallen pondered, “Even Sharqi’s not that paranoid.”

“Speaking of intrigue,” Jon inquired, “have you seen Misty?”

“She’s outside, looking at Earth.”

Jon released the straps restraining him in his chair, pushed himself off from the armrests, and climbed on the handrails along the bulkheads to the hatch leading below decks.

“Peri, take over,” Jon ordered as he climbed down to the next deck, which housed crew accommodations, and kicked his way across to the below decks hatch on the other side, “I’m gonna go find our wayward wayfinder.”

“You know I’m not supposed to work unsupervised in Earth space, right?” Peregrine reminded Jon as he climbed down to the next deck, after which he drifted over to a hatch set in the deck, directly beneath the common area in the deck above.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Jon joked.

“I guess Tallen’s my chaperone, huh?”

Jon opened the hatch, which led to the prep room for the airlock. “Looks like it,” Jon confirmed, “Any hazards out there I should know about?”

“The temperature is more than 270 degrees below freezing,” Peregrine reported, “atmosphere is 57 kilopascals below cabin pressure…”

“Smartass,” Jon muttered as he opened the suit locker, for he knew that Peregrine’s cabin pressure was exactly 57 kilopascals.

“Ah,” Peregrine joked as Jon began to don his spacesuit, “You should have specified hazards atypical of hard vacuum.”

“Consider it specified.”

“We’re between the Van Allen belts, so your radiation exposure should be minimal. Solar flare activity is low.”

“So, I’ll be fine.”

“There’s always the chance you’ll be fried by a freak gamma ray burst…”

Jon, fully suited up, sealed the faceplate on his helmet and climbed into the airlock. “All suit systems check out,” Jon declared, “Commence airlock pre-cycle sequence.”

“Yes, dear,” Peregrine joked as she closed and sealed the inner pressure door.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Peregrine’s outer airlock door opened silently. Without a medium to propagate in, everything external to one’s pressure vessel was silent. Inside the suit, however, the noise of pumps and motors, and exchanging gases was too loud to ignore.

Jon clipped his safety line onto a handrail bolted to the outer hull, and made his way to the nose of the ship, where the communications and main sensor array were mounted. The main antenna mast was Misty’s favorite place to go stargazing.

Reaching the summit of Peregrine’s structure, Jon saw the familiar lanky silhouette of the woman he was married to, black as space in contrast to sapphire-blue Earthlight.

Jon climbed over to her, and tapped the side of his helmet to change radio channels. “Hey, Misty!” Jon called out to her once he had tuned to the right frequency, “How’s the planet-watching?”

Misty turned her helmeted head to face Jon as he floated down next to her, bulky when compared to the rest of her spacesuit, which resembled a full-body leotard instead of a balloon.

Illuminated by Earthlight, Jon could see the wonder and fascination in her eyes as she stared at the cradle of humanity. “It’s beautiful,” Misty said in awe at the planet’s majesty, her glowing complexion the hue of ruddy clay complemented by her jet-black lips.

“This is the closest you’ve ever been to Earth, right?” Jon asked, sharing the view with her.

“How could you tell?”

“No one who’s been this close would describe that polluted, overpopulated shithole planet as ‘beautiful,’” Jon opined.

Misty pointed at the Earth’s disc. “Just look at all that water!” she exclaimed, “From the surface, the ocean must look like it goes on forever! Can you imagine sitting on a beach and seeing such an amazing sight?”

“It’s impressive,” Jon replied, “it boggles the mind that the Earth has that much surface water, but I’d hardly call it amazing. None of that water is potable without immense purification plants.”

Misty looked a little saddened. “It’s a shame that I can never go there,” she said, “It would be nice to see an ocean, or hear the wind, or taste the rain. I wonder what it would be like to look up at a blue sky, surrounded by breathable air.”

Jon smirked. “Do you want this to be our honeymoon spot?”

Misty snuggled up to Jon in an almost childlike manner – a slightly awkward affair because they were both in spacesuits. “We’ve been married for nearly a year, anata. It’s a little late for a honeymoon, ne?”

“Just never found the right moment,” Jon answered. The couple just stayed there, watching the Earth turn.

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