The Moon Talker - Chapter 21
This Same Knife
Lying flat on my back in bed with crippling chronic fatigue, I try to convince my numb limbs that everything’s okay, that my chest and back are not wracked with a dull ache, and that the pins and needles in my hands will soon pass. But my body won’t be tricked that easy. It remembers the dagger-like pain that shot up my legs an hour ago, when I had forced myself to put weight on my feet to go to the toilet. And now my body has shutdown in self-defence from last night’s stress and exertion, and my panic attack. I haven’t relived Mama’s murder in many, many years — not since a decade of PTSD therapy came to an end. Now my best friend has died on this mission, and my father and Johnson have betrayed me. And Johnson has betrayed herself for power and money.
“Homebot, enable patient confidentiality mode,” says Dr Ross. “Dr Yang, please excuse us.”
“Of course, Doctor,” says Yang, closing the bedroom door behind him.
“Homebot won’t be listening to or recording our conversation now, Harper,” says Dr Ross. “I have to press a button to enable it again. Yang has also informed me that Mäkinen swept this apartment for bugs yesterday before your arrival. It’s clean, so we have total privacy.”
That bloody wheel squeaks again as his chair moves closer. Somebody get that man a can of penetrating oil.
He places the metal resonator of a stethoscope on my chest, and goes through the slow and considered motions of taking my temperature, pulse and other readings.
“Your blood pressure is low.” He places a glass bottle in my hands and encourages them towards my lips.
It smells foul. “Blaa! It’s salty.”
“Drink it up. Now, can you tell me what happened last night?”
Can I trust him? All my gut instincts and experiences with Dr Ross say that I can, but there remains one nagging doubt.
“What happened to your legs?”
Dr Ross sighs. “Your father found out about the Braille book you had received in prison, which was supposedly sent by me. I had no idea what he and that Simmons creature were talking about. But they didn’t believe me. They insisted that I was sending coded messages to you.
“Simmons threatened me with a claw hammer to extract a false confession. But I had only the truth for them.”
His breathing falters and takes ten seconds to steady. “My kneecaps are both totally shattered and won’t heal. I could print new titanium ones, but the 3D scanner here is broken and Earth won’t send a replacement now we’ve gone rogue.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor.”
“Who sent the book?”
Dr Ross deserves the truth now. “Sköld. And yes, the book contained a coded message. A message of hope.”
“And was Sköld part of this call last night?”
“Yes, she set it up.”
He takes a few moments to consider his next question. “And what was the call about?”
Now, it’s my turn to hesitate. I yearn to look into his eyes, to see that we are really alone. Then The Moon’s words appear to me: Trust is paramount.
“Rebellion. Against my father’s rule.”
The doctor places a hand on my good shoulder. “I visited Mäkinen daily when he was in prison. As I saw Yang and yourself, when allowed. Mäkinen spoke always of your mission and was determined to see it through. But first, he said, we had to free the colony of this tyranny. Only then could the mission be successful.
“He asked me to join this fight, with Méndez and others. But I could not. My purpose is to heal and save lives, not take sides in conflicts. Also, there is something you need to know, about The Moon.”
Those words snap me out of my inner reflection, and I lean into his voice. “Yes?”
A dry, rough old hand takes my own. “Harper, you are not the—”
Several angry voices pierce our moment.
Yang bursts into the room. “A dozen NA soldiers — here!”
“Harper Gold. Dr Ross. Dr Yang,” booms a commanding voice behind him. “You are all arrested on suspicion of high treason against the Lunar Republic. Hold out your hands in front of you, wrists together.”
Shocked, I can do nothing but comply. Cold metal ratchets clamp down hard around my trembling bony wrists.
Not even a full twenty-four hours have passed since my release, and I’m already back in cuffs, charged with the exact same crime. This time though, the accusation bears some truth.
“Yaaang!” I cry, before being gagged with gaffer tape mid-scream. My feet are bound together via the same method, then two soldiers take an armpit each and drag me, facing upwards with muffled protests and trailing kicking feet, out of the apartment. I’m bundled into what I guess is the back of a transport buggy, from the changes in sounds and reflections.
With my face planted against a metal grate, heavy doors are slammed shut with a contemptuous ferocity that rings my ears like I’m inside a cathedral bell. The vehicle jolts forwards crashing my body into the front of the cage.
After a few minutes, the pain has receded enough for me to gather my thoughts. Strangely, I feel in control of my breathing and not panicked. Though I can’t afford to focus on that now. Guessing I am not alone, I count seconds in my head to track the journey.
Within about ten minutes, we come to an abrupt stop. The doors open and the cage is unlocked.
“Bring them to the President,” barks an unwelcome voice. Simmons.
I’m dragged for maybe fifty yards and then thrown to the floor, landing hard on my knees. What sounds like a sack of potatoes hits the deck beside me.
There’s a wheel squeak from behind. Dr Ross is here too, poor bugger.
The space is large and echoey, but not as cavernous as the main dome of the Command Zone. My father obviously doesn’t want that level of visibility. It’s not just me on trial this time.
“Harper,” says my father. “I didn’t bloody wanna be seeing you in trouble, so soon after your release.
“You there, remove the tape.”
Unprepared, I gasp in pain as the tape, and probably the top layer of skin, is ripped off my cheeks and lips by one of his nameless grunts.
“Go on,” says my father, “explain yourself, and this little conspiracy. Come on — out with it!”
Inhale through your nose, exhale through your mouth. Breathe deep, breathe slow.
“Bloody answer me!” he roars in my face.
Instead I raise my bound hands to the Mala necklace, fumble for the guru bead with the tassel, and begin my silent mantra.
Hear me, Moon, I am here.
“Try this little traitor,” says my father. A female voice cries out amidst a brief scuffle. “Sending secret messages in books are we, Sköld? I bloody made you, gave ya everything, you little bitch! Why? Tell me bloody why?!”
Hear me, Moon, I am here.
“Don’t answer that,” calls out Méndez from the other side of me. “Everyone, I am counselling you to exercise both your right to remain silent, and your right to an attorney.”
Hear me, Moon, I am here.
My father sneers. “Bollocks, wind yer neck in, Méndez. Simmons, why ain’t she gagged?”
Hear me, Moon, I am here.
“How did you know?” says Sköld. “I covered every digital and physical footprint. Only Harper, Yang and—”
“Dr Ross knew about the books, right?” says my father. “Yeah, you covered yer tracks alright, traitor. Fortunately, the good doctor’s brand new wheelchair came in rather handy for listening in on his little chats with that rat-shit daughter of mine.”
Reach into the rock with your thoughts. Feel your soul flow into the stone.
Hear me, Moon, I am here.
“How dare you!” bellows Dr Ross from behind me. “Our conversations were undertaken in the strictest patient confidence!”
“President Gold,” says Mäkinen, “this is my doing. Let the others go and—”
“Simmons! Gag them all. Bugger me.”
Travel deeper, through the rock. Reach for them. Reach for The Moon.
Hear me, Moon, I am here.
I am with you, Harper, says The Moon. But there’s no time to savour my achievement.
Help us.
Help yourself, it says. Follow me.
Once more, I trace The Moon’s path through my mind. Past the flashes of neuron activity, down endless spidery webs of synapses. Through highways of axons and dendrites we race. Into the left temporal lobe and deeper still until we stop.
This is your left auditory cortex, says The Moon, where sounds are interpreted. Listen.
Again, I practice being mindful and sense a voice, a familiar voice, speaking from the conscious realm. I hear that voice, not directly through my ears, but subconsciously from within my mind.
Listen closer, says The Moon. What do you hear?
“Bring him to me, Simmons.” My father, speaking.
I have connected your auditory system to your visual cortex. Use the reflective sound you hear to build a picture. Where is your father in relation to you? How close? What else is around you? See the reflections. See the sounds, as a dolphin sees in echoes.
And somehow, I do — I visualise my father in front of me, in my mind. The vast outline of his unmistakable physique pulses and shimmers with the sound waves and reflections from his booming voice. With a click of my tongue (I can control my body!) a three-dimensional image of my surroundings bursts into life and ripples before me.
We are in a large empty room, save for a grand desk at one end. From the size of the space, it could only be the boardroom and must now be my father’s office. Only he would have a boardroom with nowhere for anyone to sit, save himself. “Don’t let the bastards get comfortable, girlie,” he says within a distant memory of a life before.
Another click allows me to focus on everyone’s positions and recognise Yang’s body shape next. He’s on his knees, like me, in the middle of the room. Two prisoners are also kneeling off to my left, Mäkinen and Méndez, I assume. Dr Ross’s wheelchair is four feet directly behind me.
The slight frame of a girl, which must be Sköld, is lying down face first, with a gun pointed to the back of her head. Half a dozen NA soldiers cover every exit, their outstretched guns surrounding us.
My own memories and experiences fill the scene with vivid colour. I can see. I can see!
Again, I click my tongue.
“Harper, pack that in,” says my father. “Solitary set a few roos loose in the top paddock, has it?”
Simmons guffaws appreciatively.
I have a three-dimensional, 360 view, in simulated colour, seeing through walls even, and I can interact with my conscious environment. But I’m in my mind, and seeing objects with sound. This is incredible!
You are in an altered state of consciousness, says The Moon. Wakeful and alert, but all incoming information and experiences are internalised, and disconnected from your external senses. What you are experiencing is the only state that I know, though I rely on a wholly different data input than your physical senses.
It’s unbelievable, I say.
Test it out, says The Moon. Reply to your father.
I speak my mind, not expecting my voice to follow suit. “Easy Simmons, you’ll give the President the shits if you crawl any further up his arse.”
Now it was my father’s turn to chuckle. The reverberations of his laughter form a clear picture of Simmons striding towards me. Like watching a hummingbird’s wings beat in slow motion, I effortlessly track his right boot lashing out at my face and commando roll out of harm’s way just in time.
My father’s laughter stops. “Rein it in, Simmons. Harper! How d’ya see that coming? Is your sight returning?”
Wow, that felt amazing. Thank you Moon.
Why are you thanking me? asks the Moon. It was I who took away your sight.
But Simmons isn’t done. “Mr President, Harper is the root cause of all of this trouble. You see it clearly enough, but cannot bring yourself to do what must be done. But I can.”
The reverberations of his words reveal the faint ripples of a sharp object whistling through the air. Jerking my head to the left, a dagger spins past my right ear, the deadly sound throbbing like the blades of a quadchopper.
“Ahh!” cries out a voice behind me.
“Dr Ross!” calls Yang.
Clicking again to get my bearings, I roll along the floor towards the doctor.
“Simmons!” bellows my father. “Guards, restrain him.”
A cacophony of shouting erupts, overwhelming my senses as I stumble to my knees before the doctor.
Apply a near-field filter, says The Moon. Tune out everything else. Focus, Harper.
But I can’t, so force a way back to my conscious, ordinary senses, and the darkness, and cut off The Moon.
My shaking, cuffed hands reach out and grab the doctor’s knee. “Dr Ross? Where did it hit you?”
A wet hand, reeking of fresh blood, picks up my outstretched fingers and feebly guides them towards the centre of his chest. My knuckles graze against the handle of the knife. There’s not much of the blade left exposed above his sternum.
“Oh, doctor, I’m so sorry,” I whimper, compressing my hands around the wound as best I can. His lifeblood gushes through my fingers.
“Harper, my friend. Call me Gordon,” he gurgles. “The Moon, you’re not the…”
“Save your breath, Gordon. Help is coming.”
He chokes, “You’re not the first…” splattering thick blood over my face, “…to make contact… find… The Jailer.”
But I’m not even half-listening to his words, focussing more on his fading heartbeats. “Gordon, stay with me.”
His pulse stops, and tears fall as someone else I love dies because of me.
A heavy, gentle hand is placed on my shoulder. “It’s no good, girlie, come away now,” says my father.
“Get your filthy hands off of me!” I roar back. “Where were you? Why are you doing this?”
“He’s dead, sir,” confirms a soldier.
I grip the rough, wooden handle of the blade. It feels familiar. Too familiar.
A vivid flashback of that night explodes in my mind. Finally, I know. It was him.
“Simmons, you bastard!” I cry, ripping the blade out of the dead doctor’s chest. “You killed Burnsy, and I took the fall. Now you try to kill me, but murder Dr Ross instead.”
“Harper, drop the blade,” says my father, with an unfamiliar quiver in his voice.
With no effort this time, I open my mind, and The Moon is with me once more. Enabling my new sound vision mode myself, I roar, “Bastard!” again, lighting up the entire room. Simmons is dead centre in front of me. I imagine his cold blue eyes staring at me. The eyes of a killer.
I march towards him. “And you murdered my Mama, didn’t you? With this same knife!”
A chorus of gasps echoes around the room.
“That’s quite the accusation. Where’s the proof?” asks my father. Accessing my long-term memory store, I replay my mother’s death to get the details right.
All the while I keep moving, and am now within striking distance of Simmons. “When I picked up the dagger that killed her, it was the same shape, weight and length as this one. 30 centimetres long, roughly 400 grams. I’m guessing a vintage World War II British forces combat knife. Old family heirloom is it, Simmons?”
The guilty pig snorts. “Pah, mere supposition and observation.”
“Did you see me touch the blade, anyone?” I say, holding the sharp end around for all to see. “It’s saw-toothed, correct?”
“How could I know that without cutting myself? Because I remember. I remember everything.”
“What’s more, the knife that killed my Mama had an identical distinctive notch missing from the wooden handle. This is that blade alright. The one the blue-eyed intruder used to cut Mama’s throat.”
And now I’m going to cut his.
“Stop, Harper!” says my father beside me. “Is this true, Simmons?”
The monster just laughs at him, as if there were some private joke.
“Lift up his shirt,” I say. “You’ll see a scar, about two inches long, on the left side of his abdomen. I gave him that, with this same knife.”
“Do it,” says my father to the even taller guard next to him.
Nothing.
“What’s the matter? You stupid, Lieutenant?” bellows my father. “I gave you an order!”
“No, Mr President,” says the lieutenant in a French accent. “But with respect, Captain Simmons is my commanding officer.”
“Captain Simmons is relieved of command. So you got one second to pick the right side, unless you wanna cuddle up with your precious Captain in the slammer.”
The lieutenant sighs. “Apologies, Mr President. Stay still, Captain.”
Simmons resists, mumbling muffled grunts and curses, but the Northern Alliance soldiers are too strong.
“It’s as she says, Mr President,” says the lieutenant.
“Mr President, Jack, really?” says Simmons.
“Gimme that blade, girlie.”
“No.”
“Harper, this isn’t you,” says Yang, and his voice reveals the echoes of multiple guns being raised towards me. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
Yang’s advice is correct, says The Moon. They will either send you back to prison or shoot you dead. Remember your mission. Remember me.
My father wraps his hands around my own to take the knife. “Let it go, love. Simmons will get what’s coming to him. But not you, girlie. Not you.”
“Mr President, get back!” shouts the lieutenant. “Drop the weapon, Miss Gold, before I drop you, now!”
“No!” shouts my father. “Everyone stand down!”
Help me, Moon. Are you connected to this room?
Yes, it says.
Turn off the power.
“Who cut the lights?!” calls out the lieutenant. “Protect the President!”
Three soldiers sprint to where they last saw my father standing beside me. “No, no!” I cry as he bends my fingers back, wresting the dagger from my grasp. He pushes me out of the way of the oncoming blind scrum and strides forward. His meathead guards crash into each other with a sickening crunch. The din creates a vivid sound silhouette of my father, whose tree trunk arms flail about until he grabs hold of Simmons, and slaps him full round the face, sending an audio shock wave across the room.
“So this is my reward, is it?” slurs a shaken Simmons above the chaos, “for all those years, protecting your—”
And the reverb of Simmons’s haunting screams provide the perfect view of my father cutting out his tongue.
Next chapter drops 27th February.
Explore short stories and more content from Martin Grace over at Sol Stories.