Shades

by Eric Dallaire

  “Ninety-three minutes of oxygen remaining,” warned the mechanical voice of my spacesuit’s computer.

  “Perhaps he made it in the datanet…but he's unable to communicate right now?” I said, offering a hopeful tone.

  “If he survived, he may be lost in the datanet,” replied Sasha. “Or worse, if my code did not help him, he could be pursued by the Promethean tracker hounds…”

  “Give him time. He will find his way.”

  Another fifteen minutes passed and the mobile projector did not hum and no form came. Sasha wept and I went to her to hold her hand. Without proto-matter, her form consisted only of excited light patterns, an insubstantial hologram. But I still put my hand over hers.

  “Thank you, sir,” Sasha said. “There must be…a memory leak in my emotional dampeners, I didn't mean to cry.” We stood together under the shivering stars until my suit issued dire warnings of suffocation.

  “It's okay to cry,” I whispered. “It's the most human thing you can do.”

  “Jonah?”

  “Yes, Sasha?”

  “After we rescue Vanessa, and we will rescue her, I would like permission to search for Oscar.”

  All at once, I was stunned, saddened, and humbled by Sasha's response to her friend’s fate. The risks of allowing her to leave were great, including the threat of her disembodied presence being labeled as a rogue sentience. On the other hand, denying her emergent emotions felt crueler.

  “Yes. And I will help however I can.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she whispered. In the distance, a meteor plummeted toward the dark side of the moon, its crystalline exterior glittering, shining its own quiet dirge before impact. We watched until it disappeared into the moon's umbra. Then a final warning from my spacesuit about the dwindling air supply interrupted our mourning.

  “Sir, we need to turn our attention back to finding Vanessa,” she said. “I am ready.”

  I nodded and we walked back to the rover, returned to the station, and got back into our travel-pod. The clear canopy closed over me and a digital map illuminated over the glass. Dozens of possible destinations appeared, all different shapes and colors scaled to the size and importance of the locations. The map showed me the movements of thousands of travelers hurtling along crisscrossing chute roads. While the spider web of transportation looked overwhelming, one unmistakable fact presented itself -- all roads led to the Lunar Spire. Touching that location ignited the engine, forming an electromagnetic cushion of energy around the pod. An opposite-charged field activated on the rail element beneath, propelling us forward with increasing speed.

  * * *

  After an hour of traveling in silence toward the glowing tower, the Djinn’s final words of advice repeated in my head.

  “Narrow the search…” I mumbled.

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “How many networks do you see across the Lunar Spire?” I asked as I stretched my chair back to see more of the map. My current location blinked as an orange blip that floated across a gray ocean.

  “Three hundred and six major networks,” she responded. “The corporate and state-run databases will take more time to infiltrate. So far, I have root access to eleven percent of the less protected subnets.”

  “Thank you. Please check the obvious channels for any signs of Vanessa -- purchases, account activity, retinal scans at public locations.”

  My stomach lurched after a whiplash turn at a T-shape chute junction. Nausea made me weak, exacerbated by an empty stomach. Hunger-pain-induced grumbling sounds reminded me that no meals were served to shades in the shuttle’s cargo hold, since they required no food. For the past several days, I subsisted on small tubes of water and nutrients smuggled in my utility pants. Thoughts of food made my mouth water. This was encouraging to me. I felt hungry. This was a normal, human response. At least the serum coursing within me did not take that necessity away. I wanted to eat a pizza slice with extra sausage and a hamburger with too many slices of cheese. My mouth salivated when I thought of devouring a hot dog, especially one of Roger's chili-heaped delicacies. The memory of that delicious food made my stomach groan and sparked a nagging thought in my head.

  “Something the Djinn said,” I mumbled. “Small things--”

  “A clue?” suggested Sasha.

  My gut told me to keep thinking along this track. We had been searching for large footprints. Maybe all along we should have been looking for smaller breadcrumbs? First, if Spenner and Charon were looking for Vanessa, it was reasonable to assume another powerful, well-connected group hid or possessed the power to keep her safe. Second, I reasoned that they catered to her needs. She needed to eat. In a stressful situation, it’s conceivable that she ordered comfort food to calm herself.

  “Sasha, check the food delivery logs and replicator outputs for all the major corporate headquarters, embassies, and housing units. Try cross-referencing her favorites: hot dogs, popcorn, and chardonnay. Specifically a buttery Napa Chardonnay, likely aged eight to ten years.”

  “Clever, sir,” she replied. “Many of the culinary subsystems feature simplified or no security encryption. I've already downloaded twenty-two percent of the dining habits of the Lunar Spire. There is an undeniable fact.”

  “Oh? What is that?”

  “A cursory glance tells me the moon population enjoys more abundant and much finer dining than earthbound citizens.”

  * * *

  After thirty minutes of chuting north toward the Lunar Spire, we reached a stretch of the gray waste known as the Garden of Steel. Standing twenty feet high, more than two hundred robots lorded over this barren landscape. Half of them stood frozen in mid-action, some stooping to pick up boulders long since removed, while others waited with arms outstretched to accept a burden that would never come. When our pod passed by a pair of them, their make and model became visible: Golem IV: Titan Technologies. Two decades ago, these giants paved the way for the first colonization of the moon, erecting the foundation of the Lunar Spire. However, their time ended during the Sentience War. When the world governments devised and executed a termination echelon, every AI that possessed self-awareness shut down and stopped in their tracks. The end of the robotic era ushered in a stronger demand for shade labor and the world never looked back. A soft whimper sounded in my earpiece, informing me that Sasha accessed her higher emotion algorithms.

  “This saddens me,” she whispered. “Are they fully deactivated? Do they still feel? They do not deserve this fate. Buried perhaps, or dismantled for recycling…not…this.”

  “Agreed, Sasha, but people are still afraid of them.”

  “An accurate assessment sir,” she answered.

  As we traveled closer to the gleaming city, Sasha updated me with the progress of her focused search for Vanessa’s trail. “I have downloaded seventy-two percent of the available food replication records across the moon settlements,” Sasha updated. “The remainders are protected with higher security protocols and will require more time.”

  After turning around a tall ridge, the enormity of the Lunar Spire filled our view. Those born on the moon called the mighty structure ‘New Pharos’, named after the legendary Lighthouse of Alexandria. The primary tower contained enough residences and businesses to be its own self-sufficient country. Each level of the glowing monument represented another stratum of wealth. Only the most affluent could fathom purchasing above the midline. Above the center lived the millionaires of Earth. Above them, the billionaires owned a breathtaking view few would ever see. Atop them all, in the most opulent floors imaginable, lived the true masters of this universe, like the CEOs of Titan Industries and Goliath Corporation. Prominent hackers rumored that Tomoe Gozen lived over them. Rings of less affluent towns thrived at the Spire’s base, expanding its sprawl with more development every day. Each new ring built to house the growing population of immigrants.

  When we entered the city’s outskirts, we approached Vitum, a two-mile-long do
med greenhouse farm. From a distance, it looked like fields of red roses bloomed inside the transparent structure. As we sped closer, the beauty faded. Instead of blossoming flowers, a tethered army of six thousand red-shirted shades worked. Day and night, they tilled fertile, synthetic soil to feed millions of citizens.

  Dozens of other pods, streaking along parallel transparent chutes, raced me toward the center of lunar civilization. My eyes gazed up at the monolithic tower, calculating the number of floors. After counting to seven hundred, the higher floors disappeared into a glowing haze of bright advertisements, flying vessels, and lights from an endless column of condominiums. Each dwelling vied to burn the brightest and reach closer to the heavens.

  As we approached the largest space port on the moon, New Pharos Harbor, we slowed and entered a vast marina. In turn, each vessel docked into a vacant slip, moored by cloud-like electromagnetic cushions. A hundred-yard-long holographic sign welcomed us with a radiance of blue and red neon.

  ** WELCOME TO NEW PHAROS **

  ** A world of opportunity awaits! **

  Once our pod docked, the door swung open, signaling our turn to disembark. We exited and followed hundreds of travelers to a spacious terminal. Groomed trees flanked a pulsing pathway leading people to the central terminal hub. People stepped onto moving floors taking them to different areas of the port.

  Holographic displays floated above, updating arrivals and departures across the moon. I followed a group heading into the city. We passed a large transparent window allowing views of New Pharos. Above the thriving white city skyline, the Earth hovered, like an aging parent keeping a watch over its distant child. No longer blue, the planet’s oceans looked paler, obscured by graying skies. Before we left the station, Sasha gave an excited gasp.

  “Sir, I believe I have found something,” she said. “While there have been many requests for the food items you described for me, there has only been a single request for that combination in the last few days.”

  “Excellent work, Sasha. Did you pinpoint the location?” I asked.

  “Yes. I tracked food replication for chardonnay and popcorn to the Boreal Sector of New Pharos. A small shipment of kosher hot dogs arrived at the headquarters for Titan Technologies just yesterday. The food delivery receipt indicates that Ambassador Ephraim Shoval ordered the food.” The name flipped around inside my head for a few moments until it clicked. Days before, Vanessa spoke with Ambassador Shoval. He v-casted into our apartment for a meeting. Together they discussed one of her cases, a dying Israeli national that the IRS wanted to reap.

  Deep in thought, I didn’t notice a rotund, middle-aged man walking against the flow of pedestrian traffic until we collided.

  “P-pardon me,” the man said with a nervous stutter. He looked flustered, with his thick black glasses now crooked form our impact. A small metal case had fallen to the floor. When he bent to pick it up, he showed a bald spot in the center of his chestnut hair. Feeling embarrassed, I leaned down to help him gather his belongings.

  “From Director Barnaby,” the man whispered. When I looked at him, his face changed. His flustered expression melted away to reveal his true, intense countenance. He picked up the case, leaving a fingernail sized metal square on the floor. I snatched it up, pretending to help the man gather his dropped items. When he rose again, the anxious, bumbling act returned.

  “S-sorry about that.” he stammered.

  “No, it’s my fault,” I replied. Feeling the square item in my hand, I recognized it as a messenger chip. “Next time let’s both be more careful.” He walked away and disappeared into a flowing current of commuters. I went the opposite direction, wading through the crowd to find a quiet spot. Along the far wall, electronic signs pointed to a row of bright orange public vid-cast cubicles. Those enclosed rooms featured decent quality v-cast generators and a sound-proof interior, which would provide me a modicum of privacy. Slipping between a throng of people, I ducked inside the nearest call-cube. Detecting my presence, the booth's resident non-sentient hologram, a smiling blonde woman wearing an old-fashioned blue aviation hat, materialized before me.

  “Hello, traveler, would you like to v-cast to see a loved one today?” she asked. An invitation to input a payment choice shimmered over the display. I waved off the hologram and closed the opaque glass door behind me. I pulled out the message chip and touched it to my wrist-com. With a quick swipe on my small console, I played the message using a secure channel. Then the blonde attendant dematerialized, her photons and light reforming into the smirking holographic image of my least favorite IRS agent.

  “Greetings, Jonah,” spoke the baritone voice of Director Barnaby. “I trust you had a pleasant flight.” The contrast between our respective travel arrangements became apparent when he paused to sip from an icy glass filled with an orange drink. “Listen carefully for your orders. You are to report to Copernicus Square and rendezvous with me. Your primary mission mandate is to assist me with the rescue of Dr. Okono. Your secondary mandate is to retire Lt. Colonel Colin Spenner. These mission orders are classified.”

  The chip dissolved in my hand as I walked out of the booth. My eyes looked to the destination board above me. Copernicus Square awaited to the west, while the Boreal Sector and possibly Vanessa awaited in the east. To hell with them. I decided to head toward the eastern platform and resume my search. Before I reached the platform, my legs froze. Unable to move any further east, I realized that the ShadeOS prevented me from disobeying Barnaby’s direct orders. A heads-up display shimmered directly over my retina.

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  “It appears you have been drafted, sir,” Sasha noted with a glum tone.

  Calming thoughts and a mental acceptance of my mission relaxed my paralysis. I sensed any further disobedience would cause similar reactions. Anger boiled through my veins. Freedom came to me only if it aligned with the goals of the IRS. I took a cautious step to the western platform and felt some relief that my feet complied. From my memory of studying moon tourist brochures, Copernicus Square occupied the heart of the United States territory, just twenty-five miles from the Lunar Spire.

  I walked by a long line of yellow-outfitted shades shuffling into gigantic metal containers. When filled, this slingbox would be catapulted into space at a precise angle for its trip. Once afloat, the low gravity of the moon would take care of the rest, allowing the transport box to glide toward its destination, usually to an unsettled part of the moon.

  On the next street corner, a rotunda terminal rotated empty pods for travelers. Upon entering a green vehicle, the interior lit up and a leather chair conformed to my body size. The reinforced glass activated, showing a digital moon map. My finger traced a route toward Liberty Sector and selected Copernicus Square. After three commuters ahead of me departed, my pod shot forward, barrel-rolling into the trans-city chute. Though it would be a short trip, I took the time to test whether the ShadeOS allowed conspiratorial thoughts. I enjoyed a brief fantasy of beating Director Barnaby to a pulp for subjecting me to forced service. Lucky for me, my mind’s dark side was still my own.

  CHAPTER 18

  New Pharos, Old Feuds

  “Give me your tired, your poor, your

  huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

  The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

  Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:

  I lift my lamp beside the golden door. “

  - Excerpt from “The New Colossus”, Emma Lazarus

  Before my daydream’s satisfying conclusion pushed Barnaby off a cliff, I arrived in United States territory. After exiting the pod, a revolving platform swung to my position. An illuminated pathway led me out of the port and onto a walkway atop a towering wall. A nearby plaque labeled this tall structure as the Union Wall. An inscription claimed thi
s was the foundation of the first settlement. Beneath these words, someone had chiseled ‘Divided We Fall’ into the metal. At first, the graffiti’s message was not clear, until I continued further.

  The Union Wall served as a bridge over Liberty Sector’s two distinct areas: Columbus Station to the south and Copernicus Square to the north. On the southern side of the wall, a busy spaceport of rocket pads brought a steady stream of Earth-born arrivals. This area catered to the poorer travelers, lured by the ever-burning torch of hope from the Lunar Spire. Upon arrival, many with dreams of luxury discovered a disappointing reality. Unable to afford even a small hovel within Copernicus Square, most found they could only afford the squalor that Columbus offered. A long line of disheveled immigrants waited at the gate between the two sections, hoping to enter the more affluent northern section. I looked to the north side of the wall and saw a marked difference in living conditions. Copernicus Square featured shining new apartment complexes with swooping, bright-colored pastel roofs. Like a postcard from the 1950s atomic age design come to life, the denizens here embraced a slice of a never-forgotten American dream. Fathers wearing business suits and wives in spring skirts played with their children in a green park. At the center of the manicured grass stood a pair of bronze statues honoring Buzz Aldrin and Neil Armstrong at the exact spot they planted the first American flag. Above, a curved metamorphic ceiling manifested a holographic sky with day and night cycles. The current weather illusion created a perfect summer day, complete with a bright sun and rolling cumulus clouds. While I contemplated ways to bypass the security gate of Copernicus Square, a voice behind me interrupted my planning.

  “You were easy to sneak up on. We need to work on your secret agent skills,” Barnaby chided in a low voice. After turning around, I failed to recognize him at first. He had shaved his mustache and head, smoothing his brown-skinned face and scalp. Instead of his designer suit, he sported jeans and a tight-fitting black turtleneck that revealed his thick shoulder and arm muscles. My eyes spotted the slight impression of his pistol hidden underneath his sweater. “Thanks for coming.”