Three Years Ago
The part where I wrote entirely too much“What is PR going to do about him?” Laurence’s voice rang thick and baritone. The holo-communicator was nearly good enough to conceal the fact the man was not in the building at all, but there was still the uncanny microsecond delay to his responses that made one aware that something was ever-so imperfect.
“There are a few options available to us, sir. His status makes it hard to pursue conventional angles of cover-up, but he is a known entity to Public Relations; this is not his first protest, just the one we happened to make an arrest at. The Chivu family are stakeholders in the Concern’s-” Her words were cut short by a sigh coming through the holo-com. She pursed her lips, cast her gaze down to her datapad, and continued. “-Of course, sir, you are aware of their significance. My apologies. The family has offered to disown him. This, of course, shows their loyalty and fits other needs nicely. Pending your approval, the acceptance of this offer will be sent immediately. Further solutions we’ve cooked up for your selection here at PR are as follows:
Option One) Elimination; the Chivu family have made enemies in their attempts to gain majority in their particular subholding, and once they’ve pulled their support of Mihail it is an easy nudge to arrange for one of their competitors to seek ransom or retribution upon him.
Option Two) Obscurity; We can ensure that he is persona-non-Grata, blacklisted by academia and media. His lineage will end with this arrest and the Chivu family will be tasked with producing further scandal to cement the coverup as compensation for your continued patronage.
Option Three)…”
Her fingernails tapped lightly against the screen. She breathed a moment’s hesitation. Laurence never liked hearing of the exiled scientist.
“Option Three) Make him Kaplan’s problem. The man is still demanding further personnel, and Mihail does have a skillset that can used on LD-10. It gets him away from the public eye and lets you show a merciful face, sir.”
Laurence’s visage in the holo-com did not waver. The man was indomitable in visage; vitality and vigour oozed off him in equal measure, defying the decades of his life and challenging time to come for him. Full hair refused to recede, muscle refused to atrophy, vision refused to fade, and Public Relations was well aware that the chief executive’s virility would continue to be an ongoing nuisance for many decades more. Only the first few spiteful signs of gray hairs in his beard dared to intimate his advanced age.
“Option three. I like the idea of Isaac Kaplan putting some wannabe hippie to work on that rock. Adequate work as always, miss Nichols.”
Her hand finally relaxed at the…affirmation of her talents. The datapad’s subtle trembling stilled, and she lifted her head to meet his gaze at last. Wordlessly she nodded once and backed out of the room. The holo-com’s display faded, the world around her brightening from the blackout void of the Chief Executive’s favored meeting display into the gray brushed-steel trappings of the Mount Everest Public Relations Office holo-com room. MEPRO was as busy as a beehive on the best of days, and as Verene Nichols stepped from the room and prepared herself to heave the largest sigh of her life she was struck on the shoulder by a balled up snack wrapper. Her nose wrinkled and she tapped ‘confirm’ on her datapad, sealing Mihail Chivu’s fate.
“Next time, one of you freeloaders gets to take the call with Mr. Hargreave.” She snapped irritably as another woman snorted a laugh.
“There are a few options available to us, sir. His status makes it hard to pursue conventional angles of cover-up, but he is a known entity to Public Relations; this is not his first protest, just the one we happened to make an arrest at. The Chivu family are stakeholders in the Concern’s-” Her words were cut short by a sigh coming through the holo-com. She pursed her lips, cast her gaze down to her datapad, and continued. “-Of course, sir, you are aware of their significance. My apologies. The family has offered to disown him. This, of course, shows their loyalty and fits other needs nicely. Pending your approval, the acceptance of this offer will be sent immediately. Further solutions we’ve cooked up for your selection here at PR are as follows:
Option One) Elimination; the Chivu family have made enemies in their attempts to gain majority in their particular subholding, and once they’ve pulled their support of Mihail it is an easy nudge to arrange for one of their competitors to seek ransom or retribution upon him.
Option Two) Obscurity; We can ensure that he is persona-non-Grata, blacklisted by academia and media. His lineage will end with this arrest and the Chivu family will be tasked with producing further scandal to cement the coverup as compensation for your continued patronage.
Option Three)…”
Her fingernails tapped lightly against the screen. She breathed a moment’s hesitation. Laurence never liked hearing of the exiled scientist.
“Option Three) Make him Kaplan’s problem. The man is still demanding further personnel, and Mihail does have a skillset that can used on LD-10. It gets him away from the public eye and lets you show a merciful face, sir.”
Laurence’s visage in the holo-com did not waver. The man was indomitable in visage; vitality and vigour oozed off him in equal measure, defying the decades of his life and challenging time to come for him. Full hair refused to recede, muscle refused to atrophy, vision refused to fade, and Public Relations was well aware that the chief executive’s virility would continue to be an ongoing nuisance for many decades more. Only the first few spiteful signs of gray hairs in his beard dared to intimate his advanced age.
“Option three. I like the idea of Isaac Kaplan putting some wannabe hippie to work on that rock. Adequate work as always, miss Nichols.”
Her hand finally relaxed at the…affirmation of her talents. The datapad’s subtle trembling stilled, and she lifted her head to meet his gaze at last. Wordlessly she nodded once and backed out of the room. The holo-com’s display faded, the world around her brightening from the blackout void of the Chief Executive’s favored meeting display into the gray brushed-steel trappings of the Mount Everest Public Relations Office holo-com room. MEPRO was as busy as a beehive on the best of days, and as Verene Nichols stepped from the room and prepared herself to heave the largest sigh of her life she was struck on the shoulder by a balled up snack wrapper. Her nose wrinkled and she tapped ‘confirm’ on her datapad, sealing Mihail Chivu’s fate.
“Next time, one of you freeloaders gets to take the call with Mr. Hargreave.” She snapped irritably as another woman snorted a laugh.
The rocket launch proceeded as anticipated; initial thrust, billowing cloud of smoke, laborious rise, stage after stage of decoupling, and at last orbital escape. The newscaster’s drone had become background noise by now. The glow of the video display was steadily burning itself into her eyes. Beckman Auditorium had steadily filtered into near emptiness over the last half hour, yet Baixue remained. She felt glued to her seat. Her knuckles were gripping the arms of the chair so tightly they ached and her skin was pulled taut-white. The video began another repeat, and her eyes did not blink.
Again she watched it. Again, the fated rise. Again the decoupling, the orbital dismount, the newscaster’s droning voice. The video began to become blurry. That made Baixue angry. Her lip hurt too, and after the next repeat she realized she was biting it. Whoever was in charge of the holo-projector was going to get their ass chewed out, because the video quality only continued to decline; blurry images soon became unrecognizable blobs of shape. The newscaster only continued to drone on. The ceaselessness of it all was unbearable, and yet she could not rise, could not force herself to scream at the useless fuckwit intern who was undoubtedly self-absorbed in some pathetic excuse for a pastime—
“Excuse me, um, sorry, but--” A young man’s voice interrupted her internal tirade, and as she snapped her head to attention she realized with a sudden horror that not only had the video become visually indiscernible but the entire world. That fuckwit intern had somehow un-rendered life itself. “—I couldn’t help but notice you still here, too. Did you know her well?”
Baixue rapidly blinked her eyes, at last clearing away the buildup of tears and releasing her lip from the tortured grip of angry teeth. She wiped at her face in haste, her cheeks burning with embarrassment from her public display of grief and sadness. As her vision cleared, she slowly came to discern the handsome young man standing before her; tousled brown hair, soft green eyes, a lithe runner’s physique, and a mouth that comprised naturally pouting lips that were currently bent into a rueful, sad, smile of its own. She composed herself by gently slapping her cheeks between both hands, and nodding dumbly to the boy.
“Ah, er, um.. Y-Yes. I knew Doctor Xi well. I am Xi Baixue. S-Sorry, I’m… I’m a mess right n-now.” She rose swiftly to her feet and still had to tilt her head up to keep the young man’s gaze.
“It’s nice to meet you, miss Baixue. I’m Pascal. I’m not much better than you, if I’m being honest, she left us…quite suddenly. She was an inspiration to me, and…” He paused, studying her, before deciding to offer his hand for a handshake. “My favorite teacher. Her work is brilliant. I didn’t realize she had any family here.”
“S-Sisters.” Baixue managed, jerking to shake his hand with her own still damp, clammy, aching grip. “She…She i-is brilliant. A-Absolutely. She d-des-deserves this. More than a-an-a-anyone. It just…Y-Yes, it is sudden.” She went rigid after a few more long moments, and slowly loosened her grip to allow his much larger hand to slip from her grasp. Her hand fell to her side and she gripped her CalTech sweater tightly as she struggled to force her brain into social normality.
“Sisters. I never knew.” His eyes brightened. “Wow, I can see the resemblance. Incredible. I would love to know more about Doctor Xi, did you have a chance to take her class or—?”
“No, no, I a-am in geology.” She managed to interject before Pascal’s excitement could grow too bold. “B-But if y-you like, we can talk about her over a c-cof-cof—“
“Coffee sounds wonderful. A lot better than…” Pascal’s eyes sweep the empty auditorium. “…Stewing in this darkness. I’d like that.”
Again she watched it. Again, the fated rise. Again the decoupling, the orbital dismount, the newscaster’s droning voice. The video began to become blurry. That made Baixue angry. Her lip hurt too, and after the next repeat she realized she was biting it. Whoever was in charge of the holo-projector was going to get their ass chewed out, because the video quality only continued to decline; blurry images soon became unrecognizable blobs of shape. The newscaster only continued to drone on. The ceaselessness of it all was unbearable, and yet she could not rise, could not force herself to scream at the useless fuckwit intern who was undoubtedly self-absorbed in some pathetic excuse for a pastime—
“Excuse me, um, sorry, but--” A young man’s voice interrupted her internal tirade, and as she snapped her head to attention she realized with a sudden horror that not only had the video become visually indiscernible but the entire world. That fuckwit intern had somehow un-rendered life itself. “—I couldn’t help but notice you still here, too. Did you know her well?”
Baixue rapidly blinked her eyes, at last clearing away the buildup of tears and releasing her lip from the tortured grip of angry teeth. She wiped at her face in haste, her cheeks burning with embarrassment from her public display of grief and sadness. As her vision cleared, she slowly came to discern the handsome young man standing before her; tousled brown hair, soft green eyes, a lithe runner’s physique, and a mouth that comprised naturally pouting lips that were currently bent into a rueful, sad, smile of its own. She composed herself by gently slapping her cheeks between both hands, and nodding dumbly to the boy.
“Ah, er, um.. Y-Yes. I knew Doctor Xi well. I am Xi Baixue. S-Sorry, I’m… I’m a mess right n-now.” She rose swiftly to her feet and still had to tilt her head up to keep the young man’s gaze.
“It’s nice to meet you, miss Baixue. I’m Pascal. I’m not much better than you, if I’m being honest, she left us…quite suddenly. She was an inspiration to me, and…” He paused, studying her, before deciding to offer his hand for a handshake. “My favorite teacher. Her work is brilliant. I didn’t realize she had any family here.”
“S-Sisters.” Baixue managed, jerking to shake his hand with her own still damp, clammy, aching grip. “She…She i-is brilliant. A-Absolutely. She d-des-deserves this. More than a-an-a-anyone. It just…Y-Yes, it is sudden.” She went rigid after a few more long moments, and slowly loosened her grip to allow his much larger hand to slip from her grasp. Her hand fell to her side and she gripped her CalTech sweater tightly as she struggled to force her brain into social normality.
“Sisters. I never knew.” His eyes brightened. “Wow, I can see the resemblance. Incredible. I would love to know more about Doctor Xi, did you have a chance to take her class or—?”
“No, no, I a-am in geology.” She managed to interject before Pascal’s excitement could grow too bold. “B-But if y-you like, we can talk about her over a c-cof-cof—“
“Coffee sounds wonderful. A lot better than…” Pascal’s eyes sweep the empty auditorium. “…Stewing in this darkness. I’d like that.”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.” Holiday’s cheery tone repeated the words with a musicality and coyness that nearly verged into the rawest form of sass imaginable. “But you may certainly keep trying, sir, I’m sure you’ll manage to make progress in your efforts soon enough. Shall I update Nutrition that you’ll be needing caffeine supplements, or is your up coming late night more a concern for Medical?”
“If Kaplan had built a mute button, you’d be gagged and silent.” Exhaustion permeated every single pore and cell of Francis Wake’s existence. The office was a spider’s web of augmented-reality display screens. Every flat surface in his cramped workspace held a digital screen. Every screen held a wall of code. Every wall of code was displaying an insurmountable heap of error text. Sweat pooled in every crevice of his body. His suit jacket had already been thrown across the room in a fit of fury. His crisp white shirt had stained thirty six hours ago. His face was beginning to prickle with the shadowy stubble of an unshaven beard. “But since you offered, this will be a Medical concern. Tell them to double the stimulants, and I want you to reset the program to defaults.”
“My, and you kiss your wife with that mouth. Does she know about me, sir, or does she think all these late nights are… just overtime?”
“Why on God’s green Earth he didn’t built a mute button into you, I’ll never know. The next time I see Kaplan I’m going to kill him.”
“I believe there is a queue forming for that particular task, sir, but I shall let you know when your opportunity comes.”
The dozens of screens in his view all emptied themselves of their burdensome reminders of Francis Wake’s failures. He flexed tired hands, slid his chair over towards his office wall, and reached up to grab a sleek injector rod from its wall socket. He twisted it, flicked bloodshot eyes to its display to verify that his request had been fulfilled and loaded into the syringe, then pulled the rod from the wall with a hiss of cold air. When the needled plunged into his arm, it slid cold and effortless into place. He pulled the trigger dispassionately, surging his body with a chemical concoction that he had slowly built immunity to over the last two decades of Concern work. His heart raced with a surge of energy, and he grit his teeth as he returned the rod to its housing and smoothed a thumb over the bead of blood that welled over his arm. When he returned to the center of his room, he licked his thumb clean.
“Did he make you such an insufferable bitch just to spite me?” He asked at last.
“Oh, no, I don’t think he thought about you even once. Not even now.” Holiday’s voice was almost laughing. “But I do model myself after your preferences, sir. If I’m insufferable, it’s your own fault. Oh, sorry to interrupt your work, but your wife does want to remind you of your daughter’s upcoming Concern Pledge Ceremony. Shall I tell her the usual excuse?…Overtime?”
“I hate you more and more every single time you open you mouth. One of these days, harpy, I will crack the administrative code and then you will be introduced to a goddamn mute button.” Francis’ lips twitched as stimulants fueled his exhaustion into a buoy of cloud-like focus. His fingers flexed. The displays filled with walls of code. Code that seemed to dance and swim in a nigh Lovecraftean manner even as he beheld it. Dozens of screens danced to the swimming gaze of Francis Wake.
Holiday laughed.
“If Kaplan had built a mute button, you’d be gagged and silent.” Exhaustion permeated every single pore and cell of Francis Wake’s existence. The office was a spider’s web of augmented-reality display screens. Every flat surface in his cramped workspace held a digital screen. Every screen held a wall of code. Every wall of code was displaying an insurmountable heap of error text. Sweat pooled in every crevice of his body. His suit jacket had already been thrown across the room in a fit of fury. His crisp white shirt had stained thirty six hours ago. His face was beginning to prickle with the shadowy stubble of an unshaven beard. “But since you offered, this will be a Medical concern. Tell them to double the stimulants, and I want you to reset the program to defaults.”
“My, and you kiss your wife with that mouth. Does she know about me, sir, or does she think all these late nights are… just overtime?”
“Why on God’s green Earth he didn’t built a mute button into you, I’ll never know. The next time I see Kaplan I’m going to kill him.”
“I believe there is a queue forming for that particular task, sir, but I shall let you know when your opportunity comes.”
The dozens of screens in his view all emptied themselves of their burdensome reminders of Francis Wake’s failures. He flexed tired hands, slid his chair over towards his office wall, and reached up to grab a sleek injector rod from its wall socket. He twisted it, flicked bloodshot eyes to its display to verify that his request had been fulfilled and loaded into the syringe, then pulled the rod from the wall with a hiss of cold air. When the needled plunged into his arm, it slid cold and effortless into place. He pulled the trigger dispassionately, surging his body with a chemical concoction that he had slowly built immunity to over the last two decades of Concern work. His heart raced with a surge of energy, and he grit his teeth as he returned the rod to its housing and smoothed a thumb over the bead of blood that welled over his arm. When he returned to the center of his room, he licked his thumb clean.
“Did he make you such an insufferable bitch just to spite me?” He asked at last.
“Oh, no, I don’t think he thought about you even once. Not even now.” Holiday’s voice was almost laughing. “But I do model myself after your preferences, sir. If I’m insufferable, it’s your own fault. Oh, sorry to interrupt your work, but your wife does want to remind you of your daughter’s upcoming Concern Pledge Ceremony. Shall I tell her the usual excuse?…Overtime?”
“I hate you more and more every single time you open you mouth. One of these days, harpy, I will crack the administrative code and then you will be introduced to a goddamn mute button.” Francis’ lips twitched as stimulants fueled his exhaustion into a buoy of cloud-like focus. His fingers flexed. The displays filled with walls of code. Code that seemed to dance and swim in a nigh Lovecraftean manner even as he beheld it. Dozens of screens danced to the swimming gaze of Francis Wake.
Holiday laughed.
“Prick. Serves ‘im right. ThassallI’msayin’, ya know?”
The words were accompanied by a chorus of grunts. The whir of mechanical limb, the thrum of gyroscopic mounts, and the hissing spark of live wires formed an industrial white noise as backdrop to Ozymandias’ drawling rant. Two men who were more machine than flesh labored, hauling the bulk of a Concern mining drill into place. A woman whose eyes were red unblinking orbs was walking alongside, taking a torch to the Concern logo on its side. Ozymandias continued his lecture unabated, even as he observed, with only a touch of impatient and impotent rage, as his crew toiled.
“Fuckin’ Eel. Bastard. Ya know, I’m bettin’ this is still all apart-a one o’ his schemes. Fucker. Prick. Thinkin’ that the fuckin’ moon is gonna absolve him o’ his part in this. Well I’m not gonna be playin’ into that. No, fuck him, fuck Eel, ol’ Ozymandias remembers. He remembers the old days. The days when men like him could be respected. When men like me could still hold a fuckin’ gun without having to chop off his fuckin’ arm to do it.”
The two men halted, hefting the industrial drill up in straining cybernetic limbs. The thrusters of the gyroscope screamed in agony under its bulk, assisting how they could in defying gravity. The red eyed woman stepped back as a team of four more metallic abominations scurried beneath the drill and went to work with welders and spiderlike limbs. A distant detonation echoed up the mine shaft into the dimly lit chamber that Ozymandias’ levitating throne occupied. He was perched dizzyingly over a crevasse that yawned deep, abyss-like, into the earth below. His impotent impatience turned into a cold satisfaction at the progress of his crew. When the drill was mounted onto the mine’s rail system, he barked a thick-jowled laugh.
“Write it proud, write it fuckin’ huge.” He instructed to the woman, who began to burn letters into the side of the drill, over the place where the Concern’s logo had once been. “The Concern’s gonna know it was us who did this. They’re gonna know that we’re robbing the fuckin’ ghost of that bastard Eel. Prick. Motherfucker. Running to the moon. Not Ozymandias. Not us. There’s a void that needs-a fillin’, and I’m gonna fill the bitch up.”
Another series of detonations rocked the mine. The walls trembled. The lights flickered. Ozymandias’ sneer became a daredevil grin.
“We buried it deep, that we did, back when Eel still had sense in his bones. That we did. But fuck him, fuck his memory, fuck it all. We’re gonna dig it right back up. We’re gonna do what nobody else ever did. We’re gonna shove it so far up the Concern’s ass that Laurence Hargreave is gonna be sneezing green goddamn ooze and wishin’ he was able to fuckin’ die like the rest of us...”
Ozymandias’ prodigious bulk leaned forward in his throne and inspected the haphazard scrawlings of the red eyed woman. His bleary, cataract ridden, eyes squinted through the gloom at her handiwork.
“Fuckin’ right. Send it down. We’re cracking the vault tonight. Eel an’ I buried this cache…What, thirty fuckin’ years ago? About damn time it saw the light o’ day.”
The words were accompanied by a chorus of grunts. The whir of mechanical limb, the thrum of gyroscopic mounts, and the hissing spark of live wires formed an industrial white noise as backdrop to Ozymandias’ drawling rant. Two men who were more machine than flesh labored, hauling the bulk of a Concern mining drill into place. A woman whose eyes were red unblinking orbs was walking alongside, taking a torch to the Concern logo on its side. Ozymandias continued his lecture unabated, even as he observed, with only a touch of impatient and impotent rage, as his crew toiled.
“Fuckin’ Eel. Bastard. Ya know, I’m bettin’ this is still all apart-a one o’ his schemes. Fucker. Prick. Thinkin’ that the fuckin’ moon is gonna absolve him o’ his part in this. Well I’m not gonna be playin’ into that. No, fuck him, fuck Eel, ol’ Ozymandias remembers. He remembers the old days. The days when men like him could be respected. When men like me could still hold a fuckin’ gun without having to chop off his fuckin’ arm to do it.”
The two men halted, hefting the industrial drill up in straining cybernetic limbs. The thrusters of the gyroscope screamed in agony under its bulk, assisting how they could in defying gravity. The red eyed woman stepped back as a team of four more metallic abominations scurried beneath the drill and went to work with welders and spiderlike limbs. A distant detonation echoed up the mine shaft into the dimly lit chamber that Ozymandias’ levitating throne occupied. He was perched dizzyingly over a crevasse that yawned deep, abyss-like, into the earth below. His impotent impatience turned into a cold satisfaction at the progress of his crew. When the drill was mounted onto the mine’s rail system, he barked a thick-jowled laugh.
“Write it proud, write it fuckin’ huge.” He instructed to the woman, who began to burn letters into the side of the drill, over the place where the Concern’s logo had once been. “The Concern’s gonna know it was us who did this. They’re gonna know that we’re robbing the fuckin’ ghost of that bastard Eel. Prick. Motherfucker. Running to the moon. Not Ozymandias. Not us. There’s a void that needs-a fillin’, and I’m gonna fill the bitch up.”
Another series of detonations rocked the mine. The walls trembled. The lights flickered. Ozymandias’ sneer became a daredevil grin.
“We buried it deep, that we did, back when Eel still had sense in his bones. That we did. But fuck him, fuck his memory, fuck it all. We’re gonna dig it right back up. We’re gonna do what nobody else ever did. We’re gonna shove it so far up the Concern’s ass that Laurence Hargreave is gonna be sneezing green goddamn ooze and wishin’ he was able to fuckin’ die like the rest of us...”
Ozymandias’ prodigious bulk leaned forward in his throne and inspected the haphazard scrawlings of the red eyed woman. His bleary, cataract ridden, eyes squinted through the gloom at her handiwork.
Caesar’s Phallus
“Fuckin’ right. Send it down. We’re cracking the vault tonight. Eel an’ I buried this cache…What, thirty fuckin’ years ago? About damn time it saw the light o’ day.”
“Mrs. Alyssa Cross. Never heard of her.”
I knew he was trouble from the moment he walked into my office. His shoes were too clean, his socks steam pressed, his suit the kind of subtle decadence that oozed money. His lapel gleamed with the shining logo of the Concern. To top it all off, as much as I hate to admit it to myself, he was damned good looking. Chiseled jaw, Hollywood teeth, and the kind of brooding brow that made his eyes always look sad. The cherry on top? Crystal blue eyes, the kind you can get lost in and never find your way back out.
”Focus, Terry, focus. It’s clear they know you inside and out.” The detective thought to himself, all too keenly aware that his own dingy office reeked of day-old takeout and week-old whiskey. Mister Perfect’s manicured beard made Terry Gimble all the more aware of his own overgrown pumfluff that never could quite manage a full beard. He scratched idly at the skin between sideburns and jaw that remained defiantly bare against his lack of self care.
“It’s a closed case, besides, why are you bringing it to me? Don’t you Concern types have an Internal Affairs department?”
“You’re right, mister Gimble, the Concern does have its Internal Affairs department. As you’ll see, the profile I’ve given you shows that as far as the Concern is aware, this case is as airtight as the Lunar Domes.” His smile was dazzling and Terry hated him for it. More importantly, he hated himself for falling for it. “But I’m not here representing the Concern, mister Gimble…”
“Terry. Mister Gimble was my father, and a drunk.” Terry’s mouth regurgitated three decades of rehearsed witticism before he could stop himself, and Mister Perfect’s smile only grew.
“Terry it is then. I’m Elias Danse, and I think Mrs. Cross was framed.” Mister Perfect didn’t miss a beat, even going so far as to sit on the desk and lean towards Terry as he said it. Elias’ soft laugh bubbled up from his chest as he reached over and tipped an empty liquor bottle off the desk and onto the carpet, and slid the file directly before the recalcitrant detective.
”Elias Danse. Fuck me, that rolls off the tongue.” Terry’s rebellious mind was forced to table that line of thinking for later as his gaze fell to the file. He picked it up, and thumbed the folder idly.
“So you’ll take the job?” Elias asked, arching an eyebrow.
“I’ll consider it. Keep talking, Danse.” Terry snapped a little too harshly, thumb catching the folder latch and spilling a few photographs haphazardly onto his desk. “Retro. Paper. No digital trail for this one?”
The photograph that was most prominent of those that slid fatefully onto his desk was a crime scene photo of a woman lying dead in an apartment. The circumstances of the photo were chaotic, the scene difficult to discern; it was clearly a printout of a far higher fidelity AR scan. What was clear to detective Gimble, though, was a mark low on the woman’s neck that was just barely within the frame; a Gothic cross, askew, haloed in fire. He did not even give Elias a chance to finish formulating a repartee before he tapped the document with a greasy thumb.
“Oh, oh boy. Danse you’re bringing me wildfire. This chick was running with Messiahs.”
“That’s not all, Terry.” Elias’ hand interposed itself over Terry’s on the picture and slowly slid it to the side, revealing a morgue scan below. Terry squinted at it and made a sound of acknowledgment that fell between a grunt and a word.
“Scrubbed before autopsy. Fuck me, Danse, do you have a death wish?”
“No, but I do have an insufferable voice in the back of my head wondering just how deeply into Internal Affairs this runs. Either someone wanted Alyssa Cross out of the picture- and I assure you, she is practically nobody- or she just so happened to be in the right place at the right time for one of my superiors to bury a hatchet. So… You’ll take the job?”
Elias’ easy smile and self-assured confidence made Terry slam the file shut and jump to his feet.
“Fine, fine, but my fees are—“
“Inconsequential. I’ll pay double.”
“—Suddenly much higher than they were yesterday. Why does someone like you even care about a case like this, Danse? Level with me.” Terry spoke with haste as he pulled on the old brown duster coat and reached for a well-worn trilby. He ran his fingers along the inseam of the hat and secured the adhesive digital trode net into place, before sliding it onto his head.
“As much as I’d like to claim simple altruism, my good Terry, I know that it will soothe your heart to know that I stand to gain much if Mrs. Cross is proven innocent. You see, the man who signed off on this case is my direct superior…” Elias trailed off, reaching to pick up a picture frame on Terry’s desk that was lying face down on the desk.
“Don’t touch that.” Terry snapped from the doorway, swimming gaze hardening in an instant. Elias held up his hands as if in surrender and rose to follow Terry in a strolling gait. “And yeah, that does clear up one mystery at least. I get paid, you get a promotion. The world keeps turning. Hope you don’t mind that I drive stick.”
"Wish me luck, Charley, this one's going to be rough." Terry thought to himself as he stepped out of the office.
I knew he was trouble from the moment he walked into my office. His shoes were too clean, his socks steam pressed, his suit the kind of subtle decadence that oozed money. His lapel gleamed with the shining logo of the Concern. To top it all off, as much as I hate to admit it to myself, he was damned good looking. Chiseled jaw, Hollywood teeth, and the kind of brooding brow that made his eyes always look sad. The cherry on top? Crystal blue eyes, the kind you can get lost in and never find your way back out.
”Focus, Terry, focus. It’s clear they know you inside and out.” The detective thought to himself, all too keenly aware that his own dingy office reeked of day-old takeout and week-old whiskey. Mister Perfect’s manicured beard made Terry Gimble all the more aware of his own overgrown pumfluff that never could quite manage a full beard. He scratched idly at the skin between sideburns and jaw that remained defiantly bare against his lack of self care.
“It’s a closed case, besides, why are you bringing it to me? Don’t you Concern types have an Internal Affairs department?”
“You’re right, mister Gimble, the Concern does have its Internal Affairs department. As you’ll see, the profile I’ve given you shows that as far as the Concern is aware, this case is as airtight as the Lunar Domes.” His smile was dazzling and Terry hated him for it. More importantly, he hated himself for falling for it. “But I’m not here representing the Concern, mister Gimble…”
“Terry. Mister Gimble was my father, and a drunk.” Terry’s mouth regurgitated three decades of rehearsed witticism before he could stop himself, and Mister Perfect’s smile only grew.
“Terry it is then. I’m Elias Danse, and I think Mrs. Cross was framed.” Mister Perfect didn’t miss a beat, even going so far as to sit on the desk and lean towards Terry as he said it. Elias’ soft laugh bubbled up from his chest as he reached over and tipped an empty liquor bottle off the desk and onto the carpet, and slid the file directly before the recalcitrant detective.
”Elias Danse. Fuck me, that rolls off the tongue.” Terry’s rebellious mind was forced to table that line of thinking for later as his gaze fell to the file. He picked it up, and thumbed the folder idly.
“So you’ll take the job?” Elias asked, arching an eyebrow.
“I’ll consider it. Keep talking, Danse.” Terry snapped a little too harshly, thumb catching the folder latch and spilling a few photographs haphazardly onto his desk. “Retro. Paper. No digital trail for this one?”
The photograph that was most prominent of those that slid fatefully onto his desk was a crime scene photo of a woman lying dead in an apartment. The circumstances of the photo were chaotic, the scene difficult to discern; it was clearly a printout of a far higher fidelity AR scan. What was clear to detective Gimble, though, was a mark low on the woman’s neck that was just barely within the frame; a Gothic cross, askew, haloed in fire. He did not even give Elias a chance to finish formulating a repartee before he tapped the document with a greasy thumb.
“Oh, oh boy. Danse you’re bringing me wildfire. This chick was running with Messiahs.”
“That’s not all, Terry.” Elias’ hand interposed itself over Terry’s on the picture and slowly slid it to the side, revealing a morgue scan below. Terry squinted at it and made a sound of acknowledgment that fell between a grunt and a word.
“Scrubbed before autopsy. Fuck me, Danse, do you have a death wish?”
“No, but I do have an insufferable voice in the back of my head wondering just how deeply into Internal Affairs this runs. Either someone wanted Alyssa Cross out of the picture- and I assure you, she is practically nobody- or she just so happened to be in the right place at the right time for one of my superiors to bury a hatchet. So… You’ll take the job?”
Elias’ easy smile and self-assured confidence made Terry slam the file shut and jump to his feet.
“Fine, fine, but my fees are—“
“Inconsequential. I’ll pay double.”
“—Suddenly much higher than they were yesterday. Why does someone like you even care about a case like this, Danse? Level with me.” Terry spoke with haste as he pulled on the old brown duster coat and reached for a well-worn trilby. He ran his fingers along the inseam of the hat and secured the adhesive digital trode net into place, before sliding it onto his head.
“As much as I’d like to claim simple altruism, my good Terry, I know that it will soothe your heart to know that I stand to gain much if Mrs. Cross is proven innocent. You see, the man who signed off on this case is my direct superior…” Elias trailed off, reaching to pick up a picture frame on Terry’s desk that was lying face down on the desk.
“Don’t touch that.” Terry snapped from the doorway, swimming gaze hardening in an instant. Elias held up his hands as if in surrender and rose to follow Terry in a strolling gait. “And yeah, that does clear up one mystery at least. I get paid, you get a promotion. The world keeps turning. Hope you don’t mind that I drive stick.”
"Wish me luck, Charley, this one's going to be rough." Terry thought to himself as he stepped out of the office.
Prisoner 57104
The screen displayed the prisoner’s image. It flickered in the forty year out of date projector’s ever-weakening bulb. It did not flatter her. It did not offend her. It was a cold, dispassionate, display of a face and a designation. The plascrete wall of Ashgate’s level III detention ward supported the display equally coldly and uncaringly. The smooth, concrete-hard, high-plasticity, extrusion molded wall had defied harsher attempts at penetration than this pathetic projector. As had the three hundred feet of earth, stone, and steel structural supports that oppressively loomed above. Fifty feet to level II. Twenty five more to level I. Twenty five to the surface.
Prisoner 57104
A woman gripped the bars of her cell. She was short. She was waifish. Malnourished, unwashed, covered in the coal dust of her labors. One hand was of a yellow biocarbon, which meshed into her arm at wrist; a pathetic excuse of a prosthetic. The other, in sheer defiance of her circumstances, was a powerful all-flesh muscle that trembled in its grip of her bars. Her orange jumpsuit was halfway shorn, the torso ripped down the center and allowing her to wear it bunched about her waist where the arms trailed behind her like two filthy orange tails. Her tanktop was so stained from working in the mines that it had forgotten what it was like to be white. Her eyes burned. Her muscles coiled. Strength lived within this woman, against all odds. Strength and fury that refused to die.
This woman was Prisoner 57105. That same number was tattooed onto the side of her neck. In another life, she once had a name. In another life, she had killed a man. She was guilty. She was as guilty as sin, and as sure of it in her heart as the jury had been. She had killed that man and would do so again and again if she had been given the chance. 57105 was a murderer, and nothing could ever change that. Her grip tightened on the bars and she tugged. The bar rattled in its socket. She tugged again, and the rattle escalated in a shockingly audible fashion. It was loose. Years of her pulling at it had slowly warped the plascrete. Years of negligence had allowed her to make it this far.
“Her name…” The woman rasped in a dry voice. “Was Yevpraskiya Popova.”
Prisoner 57104
Transferred to Concern authority: Menial Labor on Lunar Dome 10
Transferred to Concern authority: Menial Labor on Lunar Dome 10
“And she was fucking innocent.”
Prisoner 57105 continued, through the night, to slowly tug at the bar. Every motion brought her one nanometer closer towards prying the bar free. Every missed meal, every hour of mandatory overtime, every ton of coal she moved brought her one pound closer to fitting between these bars. One day she would slip this cage. On that day, she would remind them what a guilty woman looked like.
Dear Ash,
I have to say, this is quite the surprise. What an opportunity! I always told you that you would do great things if you just put your mind to it (and stopped staying up so late!) and look at you! The moon! They’d better let me come visit HAHAHAHA! Oh, just kidding, I know you’re going to be so busy up there. What would there be for me to do, watch grass grow? Make your bed? No, this is good for you. This is good for us. I know I may not have been the best mom in the world for you, but if my greatest crime is smothering then I’ll consider that a gold medal of motherhood!
I know I don’t talk about your father much. Things would be different for us if he was still with us. I kept you so close after his accident I was afraid I’d clipped your wings. I guess what I’m trying to say is ‘sorry’, but that feels too easy. I know I put a lot on you. I know you were just a kid. I know that I wasn’t as strong as I needed to be, and that you had to be a strong kid to make up for my own failures. Of which I had many! HAHAHAHA! I know it’s not fair to the you who you were back then, but I want the you that you are now to know that you being a strong kid meant the world to me then, and I still see that strong kid in you now. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, but you held me up when I was weakest and I just need you to know that I know that. That I think about you. That I love you and that you mean the world to me. That even when I was in my darkest days, you were my shining little star that kept me moving.
Anyways, I’m crying now. And I still haven’t even talked about your father the way I meant to. He was a strong man, and that’s what I want you to think of him as. He worked hard jobs, hard hours, did the things nobody else would volunteer for just because he could do it and it needed doing. I loved him for that. He always did what he felt was right, even if it made things harder for himself. He did what he thought was right when he volunteered to try and save that tanker. I knew in my heart that one day he’d never come back in the door, but I didn’t know it would be that day. The explosion played on the news. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was standing in the kitchen. I was cleaning his thermos. I remember that it still smelled like hazelnuts and coffee. I remembered that I burned my hand the night before and it hurt like the dickens to squeeze my hand into the bottle to scrape at the bottom of it. I remember it so well, but everything that came before then is a blur.
You became my whole world. The you that you are now is an amazing person to me. I think every mother knows their child is capable of amazing things, but I never dared to dream that you’d go as far as you’re going now. I’ve reread through everything the Concern sent you thrice now. I’ve got copies in triplicate. If these bigwigs think they can pull anything over on you, they’ve got another thing coming! Mama bear is out of hibernation! HAHAHAHA! Now you go and kick lots of veterinary ASS up there on the FREAKING MOON! A ROSSI ON THE MOON! YOU’RE SO FREAKING AWESOME!!!!!
I love you, always and forever.
Mom.
P.S. I know your father is proud of you. You’re closer to him than I ever will be, so don’t forget to look up and tell him you love him.
—MESSAGE: UNSENT. PENDING ADMINISTRATOR APPROVAL--
“Hey, Suze, can you pass me that spanner?”
“Sure, just give me a…Yeah, okay, coming your way. Ready?”
“Yeah, give it some heat. Ay, batter batter, ay, batter batter… Swing!”
The spanner rotated out of hand lazily. Rotation after rotation, no air or friction to slow or stop the inertia granted to it by Susan Aldercroft’s languid throwing gesture. The tool drifted, the velocity granted to it by the rotational energies of the vessel’s drifting bulk creating the illusion of an arc. It drifted right on target, drawn in by the magnetic glove of her space walk partner. It arced through the void and snapped crisply into his outstretched hand. If there had been air, it would have made a very satisfying ’k’thunk’ sound.
“And that’s another no hitter for Aldercroft.” The man’s voice laughed into her helmet. “What a hero! And all because of the guidance of that devilish rogue, Harcourt Chambers! The crowd goes wild!”
“The only thing going wild right now, Harry, is Supervision.” Susan couldn’t help but rise to his laughter, even as she shook her head. “You need to get that window replaced now. You’re holding up the re-pressurization.”
“No, no, right now I’m holding up all of creation. Look.”
And look she did, craning her head away from the weld she was working on and, however foolishly, giving Harry Chambers an unnecessary dose of attention. The man had released himself from the bulkhead and drifted away, attached only by a lengthy tether with only a limited tank of thrust as safety net. She tilted her head as she took in his display; arms outstretched, head lolled down, somehow attempting to resemble both Christ and Napoleon in one bastardization of hubris and humility all at once. The Earth itself dominated the space behind him, and that was always a nonsensical cheat code to looking grandiose.
“You’re an idiot, Harry, but I’m going to finish this in fifteen minutes and if you’re not done by then I will leave you alone out here.”
“I’ll be done in ten, and you’ll be kissing my space dust.” Harry pulled himself back in by the tether, and for a precious handful of minutes their communications were filled only by the mutual breathing of the zero-G welding team and their murmured curses, exertions, and jubilations. It was peaceful. It was what they had signed up for.
Their bulkhead was but a piece of a larger puzzle; a detached management capsule that was being retrofit with new coupling docks and having yet another revision of the critical window panels drafted. Susan Aldercroft was top of her class, and held high marks in Concern review panels. Harcourt Chambers simply knew a guy. And yet, here they both were, drifting amongst one of the largest orbital construction efforts mankind had ever produced. Susan finished her work seven minutes early, two minutes before Harry’s boastful declaration, and allowed herself to drift back and take in the sight of their handiwork.
Dozens of other modules were undergoing similar retrofits. The vessel itself was designated as a ‘Freighter’, intended to haul cargo to and from the various Colonial Concerns that were destined to be founded. As such, it warranted an incredible name cooked up by the media heads down at MEPRO; Concern Shipping Vessel Confidence (CSV Way-Too-Dense to the engineering crew). In a word, the ship was massive, first of its kind, and a genuine engineering nightmare.
Concern wanted it modular, detachable, segments capable of re-entry and re-launch from the Colonial destinations, capable of cryogenics and long-term storage of crew and personnel, and with a computing system big enough to need several Holidays in tandem. It was a ship that was entirely too large, but… It would work. She took in its scale and splendor for the remainder of her one hundred twenty seconds of leeway…
“Done. Let’s get the hell out of here, Suze.” Harry said as if by driven by clockwork. “I’ve got a double alcohol ration with your name on it, if you’re interested.”
“As if, Harry. You’d have better luck with the little brunette in the ship store. She always gives you those discounts.”
“Ah, you mean Zayna? Really? You think she likes me?”
“Why on God’s green Earth would someone give you a discount on dental hygiene supplies if they weren’t interested in you?” Susan snorted into her headset, turning to traverse back to a pressurized entrance into the livable section of CSV Confidence…
And behind them, a single bolt was two threads too loose on a Supervisor’s Managerial Suite window. Silently, it wiggled.
“Sure, just give me a…Yeah, okay, coming your way. Ready?”
“Yeah, give it some heat. Ay, batter batter, ay, batter batter… Swing!”
The spanner rotated out of hand lazily. Rotation after rotation, no air or friction to slow or stop the inertia granted to it by Susan Aldercroft’s languid throwing gesture. The tool drifted, the velocity granted to it by the rotational energies of the vessel’s drifting bulk creating the illusion of an arc. It drifted right on target, drawn in by the magnetic glove of her space walk partner. It arced through the void and snapped crisply into his outstretched hand. If there had been air, it would have made a very satisfying ’k’thunk’ sound.
“And that’s another no hitter for Aldercroft.” The man’s voice laughed into her helmet. “What a hero! And all because of the guidance of that devilish rogue, Harcourt Chambers! The crowd goes wild!”
“The only thing going wild right now, Harry, is Supervision.” Susan couldn’t help but rise to his laughter, even as she shook her head. “You need to get that window replaced now. You’re holding up the re-pressurization.”
“No, no, right now I’m holding up all of creation. Look.”
And look she did, craning her head away from the weld she was working on and, however foolishly, giving Harry Chambers an unnecessary dose of attention. The man had released himself from the bulkhead and drifted away, attached only by a lengthy tether with only a limited tank of thrust as safety net. She tilted her head as she took in his display; arms outstretched, head lolled down, somehow attempting to resemble both Christ and Napoleon in one bastardization of hubris and humility all at once. The Earth itself dominated the space behind him, and that was always a nonsensical cheat code to looking grandiose.
“You’re an idiot, Harry, but I’m going to finish this in fifteen minutes and if you’re not done by then I will leave you alone out here.”
“I’ll be done in ten, and you’ll be kissing my space dust.” Harry pulled himself back in by the tether, and for a precious handful of minutes their communications were filled only by the mutual breathing of the zero-G welding team and their murmured curses, exertions, and jubilations. It was peaceful. It was what they had signed up for.
Their bulkhead was but a piece of a larger puzzle; a detached management capsule that was being retrofit with new coupling docks and having yet another revision of the critical window panels drafted. Susan Aldercroft was top of her class, and held high marks in Concern review panels. Harcourt Chambers simply knew a guy. And yet, here they both were, drifting amongst one of the largest orbital construction efforts mankind had ever produced. Susan finished her work seven minutes early, two minutes before Harry’s boastful declaration, and allowed herself to drift back and take in the sight of their handiwork.
Dozens of other modules were undergoing similar retrofits. The vessel itself was designated as a ‘Freighter’, intended to haul cargo to and from the various Colonial Concerns that were destined to be founded. As such, it warranted an incredible name cooked up by the media heads down at MEPRO; Concern Shipping Vessel Confidence (CSV Way-Too-Dense to the engineering crew). In a word, the ship was massive, first of its kind, and a genuine engineering nightmare.
Concern wanted it modular, detachable, segments capable of re-entry and re-launch from the Colonial destinations, capable of cryogenics and long-term storage of crew and personnel, and with a computing system big enough to need several Holidays in tandem. It was a ship that was entirely too large, but… It would work. She took in its scale and splendor for the remainder of her one hundred twenty seconds of leeway…
“Done. Let’s get the hell out of here, Suze.” Harry said as if by driven by clockwork. “I’ve got a double alcohol ration with your name on it, if you’re interested.”
“As if, Harry. You’d have better luck with the little brunette in the ship store. She always gives you those discounts.”
“Ah, you mean Zayna? Really? You think she likes me?”
“Why on God’s green Earth would someone give you a discount on dental hygiene supplies if they weren’t interested in you?” Susan snorted into her headset, turning to traverse back to a pressurized entrance into the livable section of CSV Confidence…
And behind them, a single bolt was two threads too loose on a Supervisor’s Managerial Suite window. Silently, it wiggled.
The smell was what woke him. It cut through the stale stench of machine oil, kerosene, and home-made dinner. The sounds are what woke her. The thud of heavy boots, the fumbling of the door, the stumbling of a boot catching a door jamb. He got out of bed first, pulling on pants, and cautioned her to stay in here. She eventually rose too when the shouting started
Weathered hands slowly slid across the viewscreen. A thumb cracked with psoriasis and dry from excessive washing deliberately pressed and swiped, cautious not to scroll too far on the document. The words were complex, and Arthur was not. He was taking this slow. Digesting and compressing the meaning behind the long document in his own way.
“So that’s it then?” Vicky asked. She was nearby, on the far side of a kitchenette, watching coffee slowly drip into a pot the old fashioned way.
“I ain’t done readin’ it yet.” Arthur sighed the words out, shaking his head in incredulity at her impatience. “But you already done read it twice. You know these things better’n me.”
“Ah, sorry hon, let me know when you get to the bottom of it.” She sighed back at him, rubbing her right eye as the coffee dripped…dripped…dripped…
“Yes’m. Let me know when that coffee’s done, ‘m gonna be late to the factory t’day. Gotta get through this and get some shuteye.” Arthur’s gaze lifted from the screen. He was halfway through the contract, and had read the words ‘lien’ ‘in lieu of’ and ‘representees’ entirely too many times for a lifetime, let alone this morning. His eyes were as tired as Vicky’s, though for once it was for different reasons. Vicky had stayed up last night agonizing over this e-sign request. Arthur had just gotten home. Their exhausted consciousnesses aligned at breakfast when he had, back bowed, trudged through the door.
His gaze appraised the doorframe to their humble, small, abode.
”What in the goddamn—“ His voice rose involuntarily as he surged to Gwendlyn’s side. “Have you any idea what time it is?”
Her words didn’t matter. Just the sight of her, barely able to walk, barely able to talk, barely able to understand had driven him into a rage. She was trying to say something back to him but he wasn’t listening. He dragged her to her feet and shoved her back against the door.
“Your mother has been worried sick about you, and y’ve been out getting fucked up again? Again? After last time? After she bawled her goddamn eyes out over you? Absolutely fucking disgraceful. She raised you better’n that. I raised you better’n that. Can you even hear me? Where were you?”
His grip had been harsh. He might have bruised her, but couldn’t remember. She spat words back at him that he had refused to heed. Words that he couldn’t believe she’d say. The specifics were lost to him now, but the scathing heat in them had stoked his own coals.
He sighed again, and focused back upon the document before him. Term after term, colloquialism and legalese forcing their way into his comprehension. Slowly he scrolled backwards a few paragraphs. He grunted, then scrolled back down. In lieu of…As means of collection…Garnishments and docked wages…Resultant accrual of interest and consolidated principles…
It was too much. He couldn’t parse what it all meant. He began to rapidly scroll through page after page after page, stopping only to read certain highlighted texts, certain emphasized numeric values. He stopped at the bottom of the document where his daughter’s signature stared up at him like a firebrand of his own shame and rage.
“…Mm.” He grunted. Vicky approached from his side and placed a cup of coffee down next to him. She then pulled the tab on his ready-hot meal plate, and peeled the lid back as steam hissed into the container. Dehydrated meats surged to vitality and cooked, eggs revitalized, and a corner of the tray held a scoop of oatmeal.
“So that’s it then?” She asked again, gently, as she stirred a splash of maple syrup and salt into the coffee cup. Arthur lifted his hand and took a sip of the liquid, the warmth and familiarity warming into his exhausted joints and slowly chugging mind.
“Mm…Yeah, baby, that’s it then. She’s goin’ up there. You got the gist of the rest of it?” He set the screen aside and turned to his meal. Vicky picked it up and scrolled more deftly through it.
“Yeah, hon, I got it. Says here ‘signee, signee’s representation, guardian, affiliates, or signee’s power of attorney understands that by signing below all above debts and allowances are to be consolidated and taken on solely and wholly by the signee, et al, henceforth referred to as ‘The Signee’…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I think this is her tryin’ to say ‘sorry’, hon. In her own way.”
Arthur’s hands tightened on his utensils.
The words, the venom, that she had spat were like poison to him. Dumbfounded he had released her, only for her to stagger against him as she kept screaming at him. Vicky had gotten out of bed then, rushed to the hall, just in time to see Arthur push Gwendlyn back off of him. He attempts to step back, trembling in rage, only for Gwendlyn to surge again, somewhat more sure-footed this time, and throw a punch. Vicky gasped, then winced— not at the blow of a mechanical fist connecting with the father, but at the open-handed slap that Arthur planted against the side of Gwendlyn’s face after pushing her drunken blow aside. A single slap that echoed through the room.
“You dare? After everything? Get out. Get the fuck out right now. I don’t care where you go. Get.”
He had watched as she, wordlessly, turned and stumbled out of the home. He hadn’t seen her again for weeks after that.
“…She ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for. Not anymore” He mumbled. “But she’s doin’ this herself. For herself. A person’s gotta do what they gotta do.”
Vicky placed her hand on his shoulder and smiled a weak smile.
“Now if only you coulda found a way to tell her that, you big fool.”
Weathered hands slowly slid across the viewscreen. A thumb cracked with psoriasis and dry from excessive washing deliberately pressed and swiped, cautious not to scroll too far on the document. The words were complex, and Arthur was not. He was taking this slow. Digesting and compressing the meaning behind the long document in his own way.
“So that’s it then?” Vicky asked. She was nearby, on the far side of a kitchenette, watching coffee slowly drip into a pot the old fashioned way.
“I ain’t done readin’ it yet.” Arthur sighed the words out, shaking his head in incredulity at her impatience. “But you already done read it twice. You know these things better’n me.”
“Ah, sorry hon, let me know when you get to the bottom of it.” She sighed back at him, rubbing her right eye as the coffee dripped…dripped…dripped…
“Yes’m. Let me know when that coffee’s done, ‘m gonna be late to the factory t’day. Gotta get through this and get some shuteye.” Arthur’s gaze lifted from the screen. He was halfway through the contract, and had read the words ‘lien’ ‘in lieu of’ and ‘representees’ entirely too many times for a lifetime, let alone this morning. His eyes were as tired as Vicky’s, though for once it was for different reasons. Vicky had stayed up last night agonizing over this e-sign request. Arthur had just gotten home. Their exhausted consciousnesses aligned at breakfast when he had, back bowed, trudged through the door.
His gaze appraised the doorframe to their humble, small, abode.
”What in the goddamn—“ His voice rose involuntarily as he surged to Gwendlyn’s side. “Have you any idea what time it is?”
Her words didn’t matter. Just the sight of her, barely able to walk, barely able to talk, barely able to understand had driven him into a rage. She was trying to say something back to him but he wasn’t listening. He dragged her to her feet and shoved her back against the door.
“Your mother has been worried sick about you, and y’ve been out getting fucked up again? Again? After last time? After she bawled her goddamn eyes out over you? Absolutely fucking disgraceful. She raised you better’n that. I raised you better’n that. Can you even hear me? Where were you?”
His grip had been harsh. He might have bruised her, but couldn’t remember. She spat words back at him that he had refused to heed. Words that he couldn’t believe she’d say. The specifics were lost to him now, but the scathing heat in them had stoked his own coals.
He sighed again, and focused back upon the document before him. Term after term, colloquialism and legalese forcing their way into his comprehension. Slowly he scrolled backwards a few paragraphs. He grunted, then scrolled back down. In lieu of…As means of collection…Garnishments and docked wages…Resultant accrual of interest and consolidated principles…
It was too much. He couldn’t parse what it all meant. He began to rapidly scroll through page after page after page, stopping only to read certain highlighted texts, certain emphasized numeric values. He stopped at the bottom of the document where his daughter’s signature stared up at him like a firebrand of his own shame and rage.
“…Mm.” He grunted. Vicky approached from his side and placed a cup of coffee down next to him. She then pulled the tab on his ready-hot meal plate, and peeled the lid back as steam hissed into the container. Dehydrated meats surged to vitality and cooked, eggs revitalized, and a corner of the tray held a scoop of oatmeal.
“So that’s it then?” She asked again, gently, as she stirred a splash of maple syrup and salt into the coffee cup. Arthur lifted his hand and took a sip of the liquid, the warmth and familiarity warming into his exhausted joints and slowly chugging mind.
“Mm…Yeah, baby, that’s it then. She’s goin’ up there. You got the gist of the rest of it?” He set the screen aside and turned to his meal. Vicky picked it up and scrolled more deftly through it.
“Yeah, hon, I got it. Says here ‘signee, signee’s representation, guardian, affiliates, or signee’s power of attorney understands that by signing below all above debts and allowances are to be consolidated and taken on solely and wholly by the signee, et al, henceforth referred to as ‘The Signee’…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “I think this is her tryin’ to say ‘sorry’, hon. In her own way.”
Arthur’s hands tightened on his utensils.
The words, the venom, that she had spat were like poison to him. Dumbfounded he had released her, only for her to stagger against him as she kept screaming at him. Vicky had gotten out of bed then, rushed to the hall, just in time to see Arthur push Gwendlyn back off of him. He attempts to step back, trembling in rage, only for Gwendlyn to surge again, somewhat more sure-footed this time, and throw a punch. Vicky gasped, then winced— not at the blow of a mechanical fist connecting with the father, but at the open-handed slap that Arthur planted against the side of Gwendlyn’s face after pushing her drunken blow aside. A single slap that echoed through the room.
“You dare? After everything? Get out. Get the fuck out right now. I don’t care where you go. Get.”
He had watched as she, wordlessly, turned and stumbled out of the home. He hadn’t seen her again for weeks after that.
“…She ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for. Not anymore” He mumbled. “But she’s doin’ this herself. For herself. A person’s gotta do what they gotta do.”
Vicky placed her hand on his shoulder and smiled a weak smile.
“Now if only you coulda found a way to tell her that, you big fool.”
Today
This is the important stuff
“Rise and shine. Today is a new day. Today is another chance for you to be the best you. I believe in you. Good luck today. Today’s climate is approximating the early autumnal periods of historic Italian records. There will be a few light rain showers periodically from the hours of 1200 to 1600, so be prepared for inclement weather. The peak harvest period is approaching, and the company has authorized overtime incentives. Pending managerial approval, employees are entitled to the following should overtime benefits be calculated;
*Flex work hours. (Not available in your work area)
*Additional alcohol credits per full shift.
*One hour of unrestricted Holo-Suite access per four hours of accrued overtime. Usage required managerial approval, and must be utilized in fifteen minute increments at minimum. Usage will still be monitored by Holiday for mental health evaluations, but the standard workplace restrictions will be lifted.
*To the lucky employee who accrues the most Overtime Hours during the Harvest Period, the Concern has graciously offered to send a personalized coffee tumbler to your work station with the next shipment of supplies. The personalization options are limited to Concern logos, brands, and associated designs. Names will not be accepted as part of the personalization submission.
Thank you for your time. The Concern appreciates you. I appreciate you. Now, on to Dome news.
One of the cows has come down with a fever. I believe this is due to a batch of blighted grasses in the grazing pasture. A drone has been dispatched to mark the area. Initial sampling shows that there are trace oils in the soil; maintenance has been flagged to check for a leak in the sub-lunar pipe systems. The likely areas are marked for your benefit.
The orbital construction yard will be in full view for the next seven day cycles. The Concern encourages you to take time during your break periods to look upwards and enjoy the sight of the CSV Confidence, as it nears completion. Once it is complete, it will be filled with myriad colonial supplies and make a brief stop here to restock the Lunar Dome programs with needed supplies before it begins its long voyage to catch up to the Mars expedition and then the Pluto expedition, sequentially. If it is successful, it will be the first solar system transit in human history. I am so proud of you all. Truly humanity has come so far.
Lunar Dome Prime has issued a minor environmental alert. In their efforts to contain a particularly troublesome laboratory [redacted], it has been vented into lunar void. There may be debris or trash that comes into view at times. If this becomes bothersome, mister Adesso is cleared to go on a brief walk to pick up the litter. By working together, we can all keep the moon clean.
One of the harvesters is expressing a malfunction trigger, but the issue cannot be identified by remote diagnostics. This is a minor issue, but if left unattended then the peak harvest period could be impacted if other unforeseen issues arise.
As always, I am here to help if you need it.”
Holiday’s voice comes to each of Lunar Dome 10’s inhabitants uniquely. Nearby interface panels, personal computers, open air speakers, or simply the nearest autonomous drone for those who are particularly keen on trying to avoid Holiday’s direct awareness. Each receives a personalized send-off.
“Master Chivu, I hope you have a pleasant day.”
“Doctor Xi, do you require any additional sugars or dairy products for your teas this morning?”
“I hope you slept well, doctor Kaplan.”
“Tis to be a pleasing day, your majesty King George V.”
“Miss Cross, I hope you have a pleasant day.”
“57104 you are currently not restricted in mobility or ability. I hope you have a pleasant day.”
“Name Change form acknowledged and authorized. Welcome to Lunar Dome 10, Rhiannon. I apologize for any confusion the delay in acknowledgement may have caused. I am happy for you.”
“Mister Adesso, I have provided the recommended supplies for the cleaning of lunar litter in The Cauldron.”
“Miss Neilson, it would seem that the optical viewport in your immediate hallway is on the fritz again. I do not think your repair from the fire quite connected the wires correctly. When you have the time, I would like to be able to see you again. Thank you.”
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