As his back curved more harshly, he had to lie on his side. Otherwise, all of his weight was on his diaphragm, and he could barely breathe. He was only a scant eighty-five pounds, by then, but it was too much.
The doctor visited him in his primary home. The ceiling of his master bedroom was twenty feet high, but from Steven’s bed, it looked at least fifty. He wondered how many rooms in the house he would never see again as the doctor explained that it was the Wasting of his diaphragm which would kill him.
As far as Waste goes, not a bad way to die, the doctor promised. Steven would go to sleep one night and never wake up. It would be a painless suffocation from lungs too week to inhale.
After the doctor left, Steven had the caretakers call his lawyer. The lawyer set up a trust, secured his assets for long-term holdings, and got him a room in a private clinic. Three days later, Steven was put on a permanent ventilator. For twenty-odd years, he suffered a machine pumping oxygen into his chest against his will.
Steven’s eyes were like chalky little balls that fit loosely inside their sockets. When he could no longer blink, the nurses would administer eye drops a few times a day. His vision blurred to legal blindness. Communication became long and tedious.
The one thing of Steven Gorski that the Waste didn’t touch was his mind. In all the years, he never suffered mental retardation or clinical brain death. No, all those years, he was totally lucid and sound of mind.
The lawyer visited once a week and billed for every minute. He shielded the majority of Steven’s assets during the divorce. He supervised the sales of Steven’s second and third homes. He played the music and radio shows that Steven enjoyed. Eventually, he contacted Captain Cueball of the Zettafleet.
It was a simple proposition: All of Steven’s assets and worldly possessions in exchange for delivery into the silver swamp.
Delta-V’s assault on the swamp—or God’s Eye, as the radicals called it—was short lived. The scientists on the council theorized that the lunazoe functioned like a nervous system. The silver swamp was like a central brain, and a reduction of moon callings and moon visions seemed to suggest that it was weakened by the attacks. It was a matter of evolution that the lunazoe adopted a decentralized system. Smaller swamps formed at junctions of the biggest lunazoe branches. Their individual sizes paled in comparison to the silver swamp, but their combined area rivaled it. The president wanted to drop nukes in the swamps, but the risk of contamination to the USSN fleet and Earth as a whole was too great. Branches of the lunazoe expanded over 10% faster on a month-by-month basis.
With the great exodus finally having waned, the Zettafleet was back in employment again. They helped maintain the quarantine and provided logistical relief to the growing USSN infrastructure. It wasn’t particularly glorious or high-paying compared to previous work, but it was reliable and steady. Granted, most didn’t join mercenary groups for their reliability, but there was seldom objection to the occasional boring job.
It was just after 7:00 RT when the ship Pooltable reported engine issues. Captain Cueball said his engineer was working on it and that he would report back later. For the rest of the day, Pooltable’s course waivered by a few degrees this way and that. The orbit decayed slowly.
At 20:00 RT, Pooltable began a deep descent towards the lunar surface. Seventeen tense minutes passed before it responded to hails.
“This is Captain Cueball of the Pooltable.” There was a snigger as Linus made the joke for the millionth time in his career. “We’re suffering critical system failures. Secondaries are offline. I’m going to put her down on the far side of the moon. Once we’re running again, I’ll comply with whatever quarantine measures the USSN imposes.”
Admiral Vogel authorized a general ceasefire. Pooltable was entering low orbit and he didn’t want an accident. The quarantine experts were already revising protocols. They didn’t think there was reason to believe Pooltable would pick up any contaminates if it landed far enough away from the lunazoe, but an isolation period would be a must.
Two hours before Pooltable was scheduled for touchdown, its course again changed drastically. Before anyone could muster a response, it splashed down in one of the secondary swamps and was swallowed whole.
7.
The first moon well gave Admiral Vogel an inkling that humanity might not be able to win the war against the lunazoe, even if he had the full backing of the president.
Two days prior to the moon offering, Cueball chartered a space yacht under a forged name. He paid for a very specific flight schedule. First, it would orbit the Earth for two days. After the moon offering, it was to leave and stop at as many spaceports and hop through as many Webgates as possible, stopping only after either the USSN or Zettafleet caught up to it. The next thing he did was get a hair treatment—it would be the last thing anyone would expect.
The yacht was a clever distraction. It would give his pursuers many leads to follow. In reality, he had never been in the yacht during any part of the moon offering. Instead, Cueball was remotely piloting Pooltable from a tourist craft called the Jester. He had plenty of time as it took an extended trip around the moon thanks to the expanded quarantine. Then, he hid out for a week on Earth. Right under their noses, he liked to think.
It was a perfect plan. Now he only had to make a few hops to his own personal asteroid habitat. It had been Steven Gorski’s greatest asset: the one thing he’d never sell or liquidate to pay for his treatments. The lawyer had shown how its acquisition and fitting had been handled by shell corporations, so even if the USSN uncovered the identity of Pooltable’s passenger, there was no documentation linking Gorski to the asteroid.
Cueball asked the lawyer how someone so rich was unable to afford proper treatment. The lawyer explained that the Waste was simply too active in Gorski’s body. A dozen attempts had been made over the years to surgically graft new muscles and skin, but the Waste ate up all of the transplants within days. Just keeping him alive was a miracle of science.
Hopefully the man got the miracle of God he was praying for, Cueball thought, then considered that he could no longer use that nickname. He rode a shuttle from the ground base to the New York Interstellar Spaceport. After two weeks of stowaway conditions on a dirty electronics freighter, he’d meet with a fellow merc who’d take him the rest of the way to the asteroid, where the remainder of Pooltable’s crew would be waiting for him.
The great glass ring of the spaceport gave Linus a spectacular view of Earth and the moon. Even with the spreading stain of lunazoe marring the lunar surface, it was still a serene sight to behold. Linus stood there, soaking in the light from the planet he was born on. He’d probably have to lay low on the asteroid for a few years before jumping through a new Webgate and starting another life with his wealth on some young world.
Someone bumped into Linus in the crowded spaceport. He whipped around, but caught only a brief glimpse of royal blue before that, too, was lost in the crowd. Linus rubbed his sore shoulder, knowing exactly what it meant. Still, he rushed to the restroom to confirm it.
Surrounded by white tile and fluorescent light, Linus Hall stripped off his jacket and undershirt, startling a man who had been brushing his teeth in peace. Linus twisted in front of the mirror, pulling the flesh of his shoulder taut. There is was: a little bloody pinprick.
It was too late to do anything. Linus put his head down and shuffled into one of the stalls, pausing only to scoop up his clothes. He locked the door behind him and sat on the toilet. Four hours later, security broke down the door to find him slumped over, dead.
The year after the offering had been an election year. The underdog was a man who proposed open passage to the moon for anyone who sought to give themselves for offer. Had it not been for the millions of Waste victims who had arrived in the past three years, he never would have made the ballot.
The United States economy was hurting in strange ways. The Waste ghettos didn’t explode as expected because many of the refugees came from money or were given
government handouts from their home worlds. There was also no need to pile everyone into low-cost housing because—like the factories across America—so much property stood vacant. Moon panic had crashed the housing market on Earth harder than the first major colonization efforts. Foreign Waste survivors bought homes for a hundredth of their value. Meanwhile, the cost of goods skyrocketed as the manufacturing base of America, even with all its automation, collapsed for a lack of skilled workers.
Simultaneously, the ever-expanding militarized zone around the moon gobbled dollar bills like an industrial paper shredder. Every attack plan against the lunazoe was a complete shot in the dark. None of the captains or generals, or even Delta-V, himself, could say with 100% sincerity if a particular result was positive or negative. In fact, if Detla-V could have spoken candidly, he would have said that there was no way to be rid of the lunazoe without destroying Earth along with it. That was, of course, until one particular plan crossed his desk with a possibility rating of promising.
The Steven Gorski calling changed the course of history. His testimony drove Waste victims to the polls en masse. Michael Everett’s article about the life and suffering of Steven Gorski was viewed a hundred billion times in the first day of publication. The photos of Gorski arched backwards into a donut shape compared with footage of him smiling and embracing Sarah Coverman convinced billions that the lunazoe really was God and that it could cure Waste symptoms
Steven actually broke down in tears when he discussed the years spent imprisoned in his own body. His harrowing tale was replayed trillions of times across the galaxy. It was the longest moon calling yet, clocking in at over an hour and fifteen minutes. “I knew I was in trouble when the highlight of my day was listening to the local news,” he told listeners with a knowing chuckle.
If it hadn’t been for the Steven Gorski calling, Jason Reidberg would never have known what it was like to take a human life. He had gotten used to the 180 degree flips the US3 Hamilton pulled every time a ship encroached upon the quarantine. It would always begin with the unnatural shift in gravity. Moments later, the communications would come in from the command deck.
The Silver Tongue was the same as any other radical: A bunch of disfigured cripples had pulled together enough funds to take a space jet to the moon. The only difference was that they didn’t turn back when Captain Hawley ordered them to. Jason was put on standby the moment they entered quarantine. He remembered Hawley giving them ten seconds to comply. A minute and a half passed before he was given the order to fire. Another eleven seconds passed before he did. These were numbers that would be factored in by military planners for all future lunazoe protocols.
There was no grand explosion or ball of fire. Jason simply pressed a button and knew that whatever was living on the Silver Tongue was now dead. He knew that anyone who approached the Silver Tongue without adequate radiation protection would die in less than ninety days. He knew that lives had ended because of a decision he had made. Sure, there were rationales. If he had decided to disobey his order, somebody else would have pulled the trigger. The crew and passengers of the Silver Tongue would have been killed, regardless, but it was he who pulled the trigger. It was Jason who was responsible for a hundred and sixteen deaths; deaths of people who were so desperate for hope that they laid on top of each other in bunk beds.
If it hadn’t been for the Steven Gorski calling, a pro-offering candidate would never have been elected president. His single campaign message became a policy: The wealth of those offering themselves would be forfeited to the government of the United States in exchange for entry through the quarantine. After the election, there would, of course, be a thousand lines of fine print added to this policy, but it was enough to swing the states that mattered, and, four years after Kestin’s Joy was turned away, the USSN was ordered to stand down and let a civilian ship pass through the quarantine with the intent of landing on the moon.
The quarantine remained, but it was only one-sided. Ships were permitted to descend and land in the designated swampy areas. After a short while, offering became an industry unto itself. Ships stopped sacrificing themselves along with their passengers. Instead, those offering rode down in lunar landers not unlike the first manned craft to ever land on the moon.
The Lunazoe Eradication Council became the Lunazoe Monitoring and Containment Council under the order of the new president. Its chief directive was to study the lunazoe and ensure none ever left the surface of the moon. Masering ceased completely. Lunazoe growth surpassed its original rate prior to USSN involvement.
In a strange way, it actually started working. Thousands were sent into the lunazoe over the next two years. The president approved of a lottery system. Half of the offerings were upper-class. They signed over their estates to the government, naming no heirs. The other half were those on government assistance. It could have been called a culling if those offered didn’t beg and steal to be sent to heaven.
USSN presence around the moon was lifted considerably. This went even further in easing the economic strain of the United States. Moon plumes happened less frequently due to the majority of lunazoe spread returning to the moon surface. Instead, the cruisers were sent to aid new and shaky worlds or maintain peace between old ones. Bigger Webgates were opening each year. This ever-growing system of interstellar routes needed protection.
If it hadn’t been for the Steven Gorski calling, Michael Everet never would have broken into a mainstream market. His newfound following propelled him into a national spotlight. His coverage rivaled all the major networks. He accepted contracts and acquired staff and promoted the brand and sold air time. He moved out of his slum and into a dirt cheap luxury apartment. His view out the window was real, and he was able to see people who weren’t scarred by Waste.
Michael’s foot operation happened ahead of schedule, but it didn’t go as well as planned. Parts didn’t get the blood flow they needed, and he was under the knife again in a month. Some necrosis was lasered out, and arteries were sutured. The nerve grafts didn’t heal properly, either. Michael was scheduled for the third operation to address that particular issue.
The moon callings happened less frequently, but they featured grand ballrooms packed with guests, pool parties with beautiful men and women, restaurants with live music, friendships, romances, fulfillment. Half the galaxy started to believe it actually was God calling. The other half took to calling the lunazoe by the term coined by Michael Everet: Soul-Eater
Thanks in part to Admiral Vogel’s urging and the new president’s own fascination with the lunazoe, the Pelagic institute was nationalized. Nora Dobbs received court subpoenas to relinquish all property in lunar orbit and the surface, and hand over all research data to the USSN. Nora went through the motions, seeming to comply with every step. When the LMCC discovered much of the data was missing or destroyed, her and her staff were nowhere to be found.
It was a scandal so huge, it dominated the entire galaxy, even the worlds that had lived in isolation since the Waste was first documented. Conspiracy theorists had always speculated that the lunazoe (and the Waste, as well) was a manufactured superweapon. Nora’s disappearance seemed to confirm her guilt. Rumors circulated that she fled with a vial of active lunazoe cultures. That she would unleash it on an unsuspecting planet lest a ransom was paid. That the callings and the visions had all be part of a grand hoax to swindle the galaxy. The ransom letters never came.
Instead, Nora sipped fresh tea from a ceramic cup. The little cottage was just the sort of abode William Trimble believed he would die in. She sat each night by an electric light and penned her memoirs by hand. She wrote with uniform, meticulous penmanship. Nora imagined it as a tell-all of the greatest crime ever committed against humanity. She imagined its discovery after her death. She imagined the day when Freeport shed its low-technology customs and her story propagated through the Webgates.
Nora picked off the little sticky bandage pad she had placed on her knuckle to keep her finger from blistering. Th
e hardwood floor squeaked as she pushed the chair back over the boards. She wrapped her aching hand around the warm cup. They said winters on Freeport were harsh. Why hadn’t the settlers picked a more tropical planet?
The notes formed an increasingly thick stack on the desk’s far corner. Nora spread out the day’s work in front of her. Dr. Alan Fabrycky has been a gifted neurologist. When he shook her hand at the opening of the Pelagic MindDome, Nora remembered feeling a bit smitten. He was handsome and young, but at that age where youthful good looks just begin to transition into what she thought of as manhood.
Fabrycky was strictly science, of course. Nora could never have believed the man who stood before her so proud and passionate would be reduced to a blubbering drunken fool by tragedy and regret. The man’s drive was an inspiration to the team.
It was a novel concept: Apply nanite technology to treat degenerative brain diseases. The grant money rolled in. Alan and the team made breakthroughs quarterly. Then they started thinking bigger. The scope of work they were doing was no longer published in its entirety. Prototypes were fabricated.
When the Waste hit, Pelagic led the charge with a million others to develop a cure or a vaccine. No one ever did find out where the Waste pathogen came from. Some believed it came from the Webgates, themselves, given the way it appeared on multiple planets all at once. Much of it was still not understood. That’s why inoculating against it was so difficult.
Someone got it in their mind that the Waste was a nanite-biotic. The theory, then, was that the only thing that could defeat a nanite-biotic was a nanite-antibiotic. It was this grace that secured Pelagic the contract for the lunar research bases.
Nora’s home was far from furnished. She had a desk. A few chairs and a rustic table. The bed was unusual. It wasn’t primitive but it wasn’t what she was used to. The kitchen appliances worked. She felt like she was living in an old movie. She paced about, unsure what to do for entertainment.
Moon Panic Page 7
