The Moon Talker - Chapter 23

The Moon Talker

---

Two days pass before our terms are all met, and protection for The Moon as a significant geological lifeform is cemented into the fledgling Lunar Republic Constitution.

Yang had worked with Méndez on the wording. My father, who remained president for now, had signed the bill, and communicated the changes in law regarding The Moon to the citizens of the Colony. After much pressure from Méndez, he also declared a full exoneration and a public apology for Yang, Mäkinen and I for our prison sentences.

Disbelief and unease have spread throughout all levels of the Colony, and multiple conspiracy theories are doing the rounds. Most are wide of the mark; others less so. Long-forgotten rumours have resurfaced of insanity among the builders and earliest settlers of the Lunar Colony.

It is clear to all that civic trouble is brewing, so as Yang and I walk from our new apartment, we are escorted by two Northern Alliance soldiers, or ‘Guards’ as they are titled here, for protection.

Three months ago, these same people were harassing and abusing us in the Crew Zone canteen, and now we were relying on each other.

As we pass into the communal Civilian Zone, a public news announcement stops us in our tracks.

“We bring you sad news of the death of Dr Gordon Ross, who has died aged fifty-seven. He was killed by our former Leader of the Guards, Captain Branek Simmons, in an apparent state of Moon madness.

“Captain Simmons’ knife rampage was heroically cut short by our own President Gold, who bravely tackled the assailant. Captain Simmons is now safely in solitary confinement, awaiting a defence attorney to be provided by the Northern Alliance.”

No doubt there’s an AI-generated VT playing in the background, painting the colony’s president as their heroic saviour, sparing us the actual truth. Fake news travels fast, especially with the talk of elections in the air.

“Please be rest assured that this was an isolated, tragic incident and that Captain Simmons’s actions are not representative of the protections we all enjoy. Your safety remains our government’s top priority.”

“Bullshit!” cries out a distant voice. Well said. They must have given Méndez the bribe of the century, or shut her up by force, to be peddling this propaganda. I’d love to think that Méndez is unbribable; she’s been good to me. I should trust her. Whatever the reason is for her allowing this steaming turd of a broadcast, it’s exactly why I never get involved in politics.

The hustle and bustle of footsteps around us has stopped, and murmurs of shock and discontent rise in their place.

The artificially perfect General American tones of the newsreader drone on: “Dr Ross aided many of us during his two decades of service to both the Lunar Colony and Republic. He was both a decorated veteran of the Climate Wars and a humble GP, and much loved and respected among us.

“Therefore, the President is pleased to announce that there will be a state funeral on Christmas Eve this coming Saturday at noon, to commemorate the untimely passing of Dr Ross. The service will be held in the Civilian Zone main plaza. Everyone who is off-shift may attend.”

A woman weeps beside me.

“Did you know him well?” I ask.

“Aye pet, he saved me lad from leukaemia years back now, he did,” says an elderly northern English voice through her sobs. “An’ was helping us with me arthritis. Such a shock, so tragic, like.”

She snorts long and hard into what I hope is a handkerchief. “You knew him too, lass?”

“Yes, he was a great friend,” I say, choking on the last word.

“At leas’ de President was dere to stop him — our hero,” chimed in a male voice, which was greeted with much laughter. His hybrid Latino-African melting pot accent was typical of the seventy-eight’s, as the Southern Resistance refugees call themselves after the lowest levels they lived in.

My father moved Yang and me to level three, which according to the bubbly-verging-on-maniacal real estate agent, was to reduce our contact with the masses. Now we’re upper middle-class, with educated professionals like Méndez for neighbours. The agent said the view over the tops of the giant sequoias was simply to die for. Apparently.

I should be in sound-vision mode when traversing public areas. My disability-come-superpowers are less obvious when I can directly ‘look’ into the faces of those speaking. But it’s exhausting being connected to The Moon for any great length of time.

“We had better keep moving”, says the lead guard, Sergeant O’Malley, in my ear.

“You‘re de blind girl, ain’t ya?” says the male colonist. “De president’s daughter!”

O’Malley takes my arm and pulls me forward.

“It’s Harper Gold, de Moon talker!” exclaims another. “Her robots gone an’ kill dem miners!”

It would be far safer to enter my new sound-vision mode, but I can’t predict The Moon’s reaction to my predicament.

“Requesting transport and backup, location 075,” says O’Malley, pressing us on.

“Make space, make space!” calls the other guard.

More voices start shouting my name, then a looping chant of “Mur-de-rer!” rises. The crowd grows larger and louder, closing in around us.

“Harper?” says Yang. But The Moon can’t solve every situation.

“Listen up! Listen up!” I cry, and the rabble abates.

“Yes, I speak with The Moon,as fantastical as that sounds, it’s the truth. I mourned for those poor men, Stephen Pearce and Douglas Kane, with you, as Simmons tortured me in prison. But I was not responsible for their deaths.”

“Liar!” shouts someone.

“Give the lass a chance!” calls the old lady.

So I continue. “And now I mourn the loss of Dr Ross alongside you too. He healed my wounds both after our crash landing and during my false imprisonment. And I was with him when he died. I held his bleeding heart. He said… he asked me, to call him Gordon…”

The words stick in my throat. I swallow them back down with the guilt to the pit of my stomach. The warmth of his blood is on my trembling hands, and my cheeks are rivers once more.

The jeers and heckles of the mob die down into hushed murmurs as our transport arrives. One guard bundles me into the back of a transport buggy, without cuffs this time. There are no horns or shouting. Just an eerie silence broken only but an electric motor whine as we pull away.

Yang puts an arm around me. “That was brave of you, and stupid.”

“Agreed,” says O’Malley. “Placing yourself at the scene of Dr Ross’s murder will create more questions than answers.”

We drive on for three minutes until we reach my new workplace — a dedicated R&D bay in the Research Zone. My head should be fizzing with thoughts of all the new gear and space at my disposal, not to mention the monumental technical challenge ahead. But my former crew ‘mates’ are waiting, and it’s a battle to keep the contents of my stomach down. “How will they react to us?”

“Can’t say, Miss Gold,” says O’Malley. “But you got me and the Corporal here to protect you.”

But they don’t know who they are dealing with. “From one of them, you can’t.”

---

Explore short stories and more content from Martin Grace, including announcements about the forthcoming Future Britains anthology, over at Sol Stories.