The Moon Talker - Chapter 22
For The Moon
A strange silence hangs over the boardroom as four Northern Alliance soldiers remove Simmons and Dr Ross’s body. Despite Méndez’s protests, two more get to cleaning up the evidence without delay. I’m in too much shock to weep for Dr Ross, guilty that I’m not, and why didn’t I have a panic attack?
No colonist will shed a tear for Branek Simmons, who had infiltrated their ranks and enabled my father’s conquest and dictatorship. But Dr Ross had been serving them for an entire generation now, excluding his conscription into the Climate Wars. He was part of the furniture, a familiar and friendly face to all, and a saviour to the put-upon working classes, for whom lunar labour always presented mortal peril. Dr Ross had served and saved many of them over the years. What if they find out that the knife was meant for me?
If only I could have looked into his eyes, and seen the warm smile that I heard so often in the kindness of his voice.
After proving many times that The Moon and I were in control of the facility (or so I allowed them to believe),I forced my father to release all my fellow prisoners. And thus, the various factions of the Lunar Colony entered into a tentative truce and parley. There was no perfect and unbiased candidate to chair the negotiations, but eventually there was only one name we could all compromise on, and the all too familiar confident stomp of her US Air Force standard issue boots march into the room.
“What a shit show,” says Commander Johnson. “Mr President, what in God’s name were you thinking?”
But my father remains silent, for once.
“Harper,” she says. “Shall I take you to get cleaned up before we proceed?”
I shake my head. “Yang will help me.”
“Very well. Sergeant O’Malley, have two of your guards escort Dr Yang and Miss Gold to the nearest restroom and send another to fetch her a towel and clean clothes. No guns, got it?”
“Yes, Commander,” says the newly identified lead soldier.
Too tired and distressed to echo-locate my own way there, I take Yang’s arm, and he guides me gingerly forwards. After ninety paces, the swish of an automatic door and bright room reverb signify that we’re in the loos.
“Are we alone?” I ask.
“For now,” says Yang.
We fall into each other’s arms. It’s the first time I have been held since Burnsy died. I bury my face in the notch where his collarbone meets his neck. My choking tears soak his shirt, as his own seep through my matted hair.
Instead of Dr Ross, or even Burnsy, I find myself still mourning for Mama, as the horror of revealing Simmons as her killer brings it all back. She’s my wound that never healed. For over fourteen years now, I’ve been living in the hope of one day finding her killer and bringing him to justice. This moment was supposed to be closure — the end of my depression. But what happened, at my father’s hand, was not justice. It was a silencing.
The door swishes open again. “Towels and clean clothes.” Yang takes them, then ushers the soldier out.
“Sorry,” I say, “I must have covered you in blood too.”
“It’s not a problem. I’ll put this stuff down by the sink to your left.”
My top and bottoms are both ringing wet. Yet I hesitate to get undressed in front of Yang. I’m not sexually wary of him, of course, more embarrassed about the appearance of my malnourished body, even though I know he won’t judge me.
I’ve never considered myself beautiful or sexy, but I’d been shapely enough before leaving Earth. Now my ribs would pass for xylophone bars, and I’ve no more arse than a nine-year-old.
For a second, I wish that Johnson were here. The old Johnson that I love.
“Shall I wait outside?” asks Yang.
“No, thanks. Just turn around.”
“Sure.” Yang’s feet shuffle until it’s clear from the increased reflections that he’s facing the wall. Yet a shameful urge rises to enter sound-vision mode and double-check.
Trust is paramount, The Moon says in my thoughts.
I wash Dr Ross’s blood as best I can from my hands, face, chest and knotted bird’s nest of a prison hairdo. Then fumble around for the new clothes and cover up.
“Clean?” I ask.
“Missed a bit.” Yang wipes my cheek with a wet paper towel.
“We have to be strong in there. For The Moon.”
Yang takes my hand. “For The Moon.”
Johnson lets out a dramatic, elongated huff. “Right, let’s start.”
“Now, it’s fair to say that most of us ain’t exactly on each other’s Christmas card lists right now. But we got some bigger issues to deal with here concerning both life at the Colony, and back on Earth. So for the good of the conference, let’s take all a’ that hate and distrust and stick a pin in it for now…”
I’ll stick a pin in you, you fu—.
Keep your focus, Harper, says The Moon. Remember your mission. Lead with logic, not emotion.
In sound-vision mode, it is clear who is sitting where. In some shallow attempt to convey equality, Johnson has arranged all eight of us in a perfect circle, like knights of the bloody round table. But equality is far from the truth of the situation. The balance of power has swung again.
She and my father, the supposed power couple, are sitting directly opposite the odd couple, Yang and me. The black sheep.
Johnson clears her throat. “First order of business. How are we going to handle the death of Dr Ross?”
“By applying the law,” says Méndez. “Simmons will stand trial for his crimes, although that will be a little harder without the use of his tongue. The President will need to defend his actions too, for multiple counts of grievous bodily harm as a starting point.”
My father spits on the floor. “Piss off! Can’t a fella defend his daughter now?”
An involuntary snort tears down my intended restraint. “The only thing you were defending, were your secrets.”
“What are you implying, girlie?” snarls my father, the menace dripping from his every word.
“Implying? Nothing. I’m outright saying—”
Johnson stamps a boot hard on the floor. “Harper. Jack. Enough!”
Heart pounding, I take the resulting impasse off as my cue, and stand up to address the room. “The Moon and I have control of the Colony. Here are our conditions.
“One. Dr Yang and I will never be harmed or punished for our alliance with The Moon. If anything else happens to us, then The Moon will shutdown power to all the lunar farms indefinitely, decimating all crops and export income.
“Two. All mining operations attempting to extract the lithium must cease immediately. This includes the building of Klingemann’s new tunnel boring machine. Otherwise, The Moon will shutdown all power to the Colony, leading to catastrophic failure of the life support systems.
“Third. The Moon is an ancient, powerful and wise lifeform, one that can help us if we choose to understand and learn from it. Therefore, The Moon’s equivalent of human rights must be protected and enshrined in Lunar Republic law.
“That concludes our demands.”
The room contemplates them in heavy silence. No counterarguments or demands are made. A bead of sweat betrays my bluff. I’m only a near-field conduit for The Moon. It can’t reach the farms or other parts of the Colony without my physical presence.
My vision goes dark with the lack of sound, so I click to make sure everyone is still sitting in their places.
Eventually, Mäkinen breaks the silence. “But what about Earth? We only have two months left to get your air-purifying drones operational before the Permacloud reaches the point of no return.”
There’s a better power option than batteries, says The Moon.
Nuclear fusion miniaturisation — you know how?
Yes.
“The Moon will show us another way,” I say. “But you must trust me on that, Flight Director. The sooner our three demands are met and The Moon’s safety is guaranteed, then the sooner we can all return to our original mission objective. We will all need to pull together to develop the new technology required.”
“And what of democracy?” asks Méndez. “And freedom from your father’s dictatorship?”
My father slams a huge fist into his fat thigh. “I object!”
“We’re not in a courtroom yet, Mr President,” says Méndez.
Johnson raises a hand. “Save it, you two. Harper, got an answer for Méndez there?”
I have sympathy for the lawyer’s social causes, but no time. “Those matters are the Colony’s concern, not ours.”
“That is simply not satisfactory,” says Méndez. “There must be some accommodation you can make?”
“The Moon, Dr Yang and I are people of science, not politics. This is our final word on the matter.”
Méndez gives a dismissive huff. “Commander Johnson, I must protest.”
“Protest all you like, Méndez,” says Johnson. “But who’s holding the cards here?”
If only she knew that our hand was short a few aces.
“Mäkinen, you gonna just sit there?” says Méndez. “What about The Colony? Democracy? Christ, your rebellion?”
“The situation has changed,” says the Flight Director, “Our mission is back on track. Earth, is what matters.”
Méndez spits towards the Fight Director’s voice. “Hijo de puta!”
She freed me — and Mäkinen and Yang. She deserves better than this, as do the hard working colonists she is fighting for. But they are not our mission. The Moon first, Earth second. I can do no more.
“And what of your father?” asks Johnson. I turn my head in her direction. Does she know what my father is planning? Is she in on it, or just plain naïve?
My father isn’t intending to use the lithium for the Colony like he said, to secure it, to expand it, to create a refuge for Earth citizens. No, he had revealed himself in his actions today. He wasn’t looking to change our original mission plan for the lithium. He wanted full ownership of the Permacloud drone programme, to extort what remained of nations and corporations back on Earth for cleaning their air and cooling the planet. And for that, he simply needed me more than Simmons.
A click sharpens the outline of the sullen brute, so I can face him as best I can. “I have no father.”
Next chapter drops 6th March.
Explore short stories and more content from Martin Grace over at Sol Stories.