Confrontation

by William Hayashi

  John handed the device back.

  “Does it self-destruct if someone messes with it?”

  “No, you never know when it’s going to be some dumb-ass kid who ends up with it. No one wants that.”

  “The usual?”

  “That would be great. We had to sit on the tarmac for over an hour in Houston. Things are really going to hell with this government austerity crap,” said Tom, shaking his head. “Just one man’s opinion, but I don’t understand how those bozos in Washington can’t follow the same formula for getting out of this recession like we did after the Great Depression.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, for every dollar the government spent in those public works programs, somewhere between six and eight dollars were returned to the Treasury.”

  “Get out! Is that really true?” John asked.

  “Damn right! They did all kinds of studies of the depression and that’s what they figured it out.”

  John held up a finger for Tom to hold his thought as he went down to the other end of the bar to fill the waitress’ drink orders. When he returned, Tom signaled for a refill.

  “So where did this big push for killing off government begin, even the stuff that keeps the country functioning?” John picked right back up where they left off.

  “A whole lot of people who don’t know a damn thing about government, or economics or even simple math got elected. I’m hoping it’ll pass.

  “GST’s been doing really well because the voters have spoken loud and clear about getting the goodies those folks in space have at their disposal. Living longer, better weapons, whatever. For the last ten years, spending money on space actually polled at the top of voters’ priorities.

  “The prospect of living longer and healthier, flying cars, personal robots, whatever they’re imagining, is driving that whole push. And yet they’re still treating black people like crap, in many cases even worse than before. It’s a pretty fucked–up world out there, John”

  Again with the Sseparatists, John thought.

  “You mention those people a lot. What’s up with that?” John decided to simply ask.

  “I guess it’s because we’re so wrapped up in the whole situation. After all, GST has about a third of its resources devoted to this country’s mission to meet with them. You have no idea. About half of the issues my corporate security department deals with are related to that damn project.”

  “Damn project?”

  “John, it’s a complete waste of time, the whole mission. Their parting message wasn’t at all ambiguous: they don’t want to have anything to do with us. So my question is, why are we spending a measurable part of this country’s GDP on trying to go out there to confront them? How’s that going to work out? No one I’ve talked to has any kind of answer to that, although it’s not like I can just march into a board of directors meeting and put it to those mopes.

  “Deep space technologies, they’re all fine and good. But what about getting those soldiers off the moon? That kind of technology would be useful. We could build our own installations on the moon for research. Hell, rich folks would pay a bundle to be able to say they stayed at the most exclusive resort in the solar system!” Tom concluded, laughing at the thought.

  “That would be something.”

  Tom looked up at John, raising his glass. “Would you go to the moon if you had the opportunity? If money were no object and all that?”

  John was quiet for a moment, thinking about the pros and cons of such an adventure.

  “You know, probably so. Maybe I could be the Lunar Lounge’s number one bartender,” he said with a laugh.

  “No shit? You’d go?” Tom asked in surprise.

  “I’m pretty sure if offered I would. For all practical purposes I’m retired. I have no real debt, very few friends, and something like that would, in all likelihood, require about a hundred and ten percent of my attention to stay alive up there. Since I retired, my life has hardly been a roller-coaster ride of excitement. But realistically, this here is what I’m probably left with,” he said, gesturing around the lounge.

  Hearing the last, Tom sat up, a serious look on his face.

  “I never brought it up before; you seemingly happy with your gig here. But if you’re looking to do something with a little more excitement, GST could always use a mind like yours. You being an ex-cop makes you perfect for the department I work in.”

  “What? Chasing down office supply thieves?” John said sarcastically.

  “Not at all. A multinational like GST deals with many different issues in their security apparatus. Someone said we have more than ten thousand people in my department. There’s protection details, investigative folks, our own answer to hackers; you name it.”

  “Yeah, maybe. I’ll think about it. Be right back,” John said, moving to the end of the bar to fill an order. He returned with another glass of beer for Tom, saying, “On me, sir. As far as your offer, I’d have to think about it. I’m not sure I want a daily grind again. This gig is cool. No real heavy lifting, the hours are great and the company is nice.”

  “Suit yourself. But it’s not like you’re all played out or too old. I could use a runnin’ buddy on staff like you.”

  Tom drained his glass and waved off John’s offer for a refill as he tossed a twenty dollar bill on the bar.

  “Gotta run. Got two interviews tomorrow. Catch you later,” he said with a wave as he headed for the door.

  As the door closed behind him, John knew he wasn’t seriously interested in a job with GST, but in pumping Tom for information, trying to figure out his real agenda. There was definitely something more than that seemingly casual offer. He just didn’t know what.

  Chapter 4

  LOVELY DAY

  The passage of ten years saw little external change to the separatists’ main habitat: perhaps a few more antennae on the surface of what has been the top of the colony when it was still embedded in the lunar rock, and a couple of new airlocks to facilitate the coming and going of a new fleet of scientific and exploratory ships.

  However, those few short years had seen an explosion of smaller life-sustaining space stations where groups of like–minded people conducted experiments, further explored the solar system and performed engineering tests that were best done under isolated conditions so as not to put their home at risk.

  Most people in the colony didn’t know that Peanut’s real name was Horace. He earned his nickname in eighth grade from Christopher when he won the city’s science fair with his exhibit on George Washington Carver. No one had called him by his Christian name since he had attended college.

  Peanut had designed and supervised the building of the colonists’ first scientific space stations once they had reached the inner boundary of the solar system’s asteroid belt. The initial construction was basically child’s play.

  The first step was to locate a fairly large asteroid consisting mostly of iron. They towed it away from the main habitat and then heated it to melting point with lasers. Once the volatiles, other gases and water burned off, a titanium tube was pushed into the molten blob and the iron ore was blown up like a balloon. Once it cooled, Peanut and his crew outfitted it with internal bracing, airlocks, floors and furnishings. In very short order they had a self-contained space station.

  Peanut was one of the “original four” high school friends who decided on a lark that they were going to make their own country. However, instead of ending up with their own private community on earth populated only by American black people, a chance discovery by their friend Christopher allowed them to steal the march on NASA, and every other country’s space program, to establish a secret foothold on the moon well in advance of Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin’s arrival.

  Christopher Wright, Horace “Peanut” Billings, Charles Perkins and Riley Sykes had built the first working interplanetary spacec
raft in history. Their lunar habitat remained humanity’s most carefully guarded secret for nearly four decades, growing from a handful of intrepid black men and women living in a hollowed–out cave into an underground lunar colony of over two thousand.

  Membership in this exclusive community had three criteria: extraordinary endeavor in their lives on earth, the commitment to keep the lunar colony a secret to everyone left behind, and they had to be black. These American blacks sweated to create and maintain a colony of thousands dedicated to ensuring that each successive generation was more prosperous, more secure and better educated than the last.

  Earth called them separatists, a name of convenience. But what really separated the colonists from those they left behind was a technological edge in the mastery and control of gravity. Christopher’s counterintuitive, chance discovery in graduate school was parlayed by the original four into rocketless propulsion, unlimited power generation, new construction and excavation techniques in space, force shields right out of Star Trek and, if Peanut had his way, would shortly yield faster than light (FTL) space travel.

  The road to the moon wasn’t easy, nor was establishing their habitat. They lost one of their founding members, Riley Sykes, to a torn spacesuit. It was a loss none of them had ever gotten over.

  But now they were fully engaged in their own separate pursuits. Nearly every project that occupied them was truly the province of science fiction to their earth-born leave behinds.

  “Genesis, would you see what Chris is up to?” Peanut called out into the empty room.

  “One moment, please … Christopher is currently eating lunch with his son. He asks if he may return your call shortly?” came the disembodied voice of the colony’s artificial intelligence.

  “That would be fine. Any time will be all right.”

  “Christopher said half an hour, no more.”

  “Thank you, Genesis.”

  “Will there be anything else I may assist you with, Peanut?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. When you were integrating these fourth order power calculations, was there anything to suggest that accessing interdimensional space would not be possible with the proposed configuration of our hardware?” he inquired.

  “There was not. All the simulations show that the adaptations to the G-wave emitter effect, along with the altered power outputs, will produce the dimensional puncture calculated. The math suggests that the localized effect will result in the probe penetrating into an interdimensional nullspace outside our universe. The physics constants of that, or any other, dimension cannot be calculated until the probe can pass through the space between dimensions and into one of the others for measurement and analysis. Furthermore, until there is a better understanding of that region just outside of this universe, there is no way to speculate whether penetrating into one of the other dimensions is at all possible.”

  “What I’m hoping is that the physics of the space between dimensions will be suitable for FTL travel without having to fully penetrate into one of the other dimensions,” Peanut explained.

  “Have you advanced your plan further than the specifications you have shared with me on how to measure the physical constants of interdimensional space?”

  “Other than recognizing the fact that we have to take a bubble of our space/time along with us to surround whatever vessel we’re traveling in so we have known physical constraints, I’ve got no idea what’s going to happen.”

  “That is why Christopher and Chuck insisted that the first interdimensional trip be an unmanned probe.”

  Gesturing to the internal hardware of the probe dominating the workbench along the wall, he said, “Sure, that’s going first. But what if it doesn’t come back? And another, and another and so on, what then? Am I supposed to give up?”

  “I do not believe so. Man has navigated many uncharted waters, often failing until the right set of circumstances occurred ensuring success. Your journey will, in all likelihood, meet with success as long as you continue to overcome each challenge as it presents itself.”

  “May I ask you a personal question?”

  “Of course. I exist to try to answer every question put to me.”

  “I have noticed that your use of phrases is more–I guess more expansive, poetic maybe. Has TJ been reprogramming your response engine?”

  “I am gratified that you have noticed. However, my use of less sterile responses is the result of my consuming a good deal of fiction and integrating many of the language structures and vernacular into my responses. Do you find the changes positive? Or is it off-putting?”

  “I like it. You always seemed like a flesh and blood person before, just not in the same room as me. I can’t tell the difference conversationally between you or anyone else, but you definitely have your own personality to me.”

  “As the saying goes, I am a work in progress. Will there be anything else I may assist you with?”

  “Thank you, Genesis. That will be all.”

  Peanut continued working on the calculations and programming of the unmanned probe, trying to come up with as many wild possibilities that might occur outside of normal time and space. About twenty minutes later, Genesis signaled an incoming call from Christopher.

  “What up, genius?” Christopher asked.

  “Just working on programming the probe. Can you get away for dinner?”

  “Should be no problem. Let me put Ben to bed and I’ll meet you.”

  “How about the commissary at nine?”

  “Tell you what, let’s splurge and meet at Sherman’s. I could use a drink or two tonight. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  Peanut chuckled, “Can’t wait. See you then.”

  Christopher had been the most driven of the original four. He also took upon himself the responsibility for everyone in their community’s health and well–being, hovering on the edge of compulsive mother henning of the entire colony’s residents.

  Christopher had taken Riley’s accident hard, blaming himself for putting Riley in a position where such a thing could happen. At the time, there were fewer than a dozen people living in their first habitat under a natural rock formation on the lunar surface. Christopher went so far as to suggest they bag the whole operation and return to earth, but was vociferously overruled with several of the group getting angry enough to chew him out. They essentially demanded, where did he get off thinking he could make such a decision for them all?

  Soon after Riley’s death, one of the benefits those living on the moon enjoyed was a lifespan much longer than their earth counterparts. A retrovirus developed by one of the earliest recruits bestowed a health and vitality to their lives that made them immune to nearly every known earthly virus and bacterial infection. Sadly, those on earth had evidence of this boon, which fueled much of the insane obsession with obtaining the technological advantages they imagined the separatists enjoyed.

  One of the personal benefits for Christopher was that when the habitat lifted out of the moon, after nearly forty years in the making, he was physically still a young man. Once the habitat flew away from the moon, Christopher finally allowed himself to loosen up enough to consider entering into a relationship of his own.

  He settled down with Patricia Cornwall, the microbiologist who came up with the retrovirus treatment and the first female member of their original group. She’d been waiting patiently for Christopher to finally think about what he needed or wanted in companionship. They had known each other for thirty years. In fact, there was little they didn’t know about each other. Theirs was an easy relationship, and it only took a handful of years before they had a son they named after Christopher’s father Benjamin.

  “What’s for dinner, boys?” asked Patricia when she arrived home from work.

  Christopher gave her a kiss in passing on his way to the refrigerator.

  “Hey, Ben! How about mac and cheese and hot d
ogs?” he asked their four-year-old, coloring at the kitchen table.

  “Yeah! Hot dogs with no bun, in the cheese?” Ben pleaded.

  “Sure, sport. Whatever you want. Then a bath and I’ll read you two books tonight. Clean off the table and put your things away.”

  “Okay, daddy.”

  Ben carefully put all his crayons back into the box and gathered up all the drawings he had made, giving his favorite to his mother to hang on the fridge.

  When Ben dashed to his room to put his things away, Christopher said, “Peanut wants to get together for a late dinner. I was going to meet him around nine at Sherman’s.”

  “Special, special! Bring me back a piece of cake, will you sweetie?” she said, wrapping her arms around him and nuzzling his ear.

  “No problem. I’ll get Ben’s dinner. What can I make for you?” he asked.

  “Really?” she asked, grinning at the offer. “How about a Belgian waffle?”

  “Strawberries or maple syrup?”

  “Strawberries and whipped cream… No wait, skip the whipped cream, otherwise Ben’s going to want some on his hot dogs.”

  Christopher joined her laughing at the thought. Moments later, when Ben came bounding back into the room Patricia asked, “Ben, honey. Daddy’s making me a waffle, would you like one instead of your hot dogs?”

  “A waffle for dinner? No way, mommy, that’s for breakfast!” he answered, indignant at the very idea.

  “Okay, sport. Did you wash your hands?” Christopher asked.

  “Oopsy! I forgot! I’ll be right back.”

  Dinner proceeded without incident, with Ben’s following bath a bundle of giggly fun. When he was settled in bed, he chose the two books he wanted his father to read him. It was the best time of the day for young Ben, though rarely did he manage to stay awake through two whole stories.

  Making his way into the kitchen, Christopher found Patricia reviewing reports on the room’s main screen. “Homework?” he asked, kissing her on the top of her head.