Dark Side of the Moon

by P. C. Rasmussen

  Kyle had started to act out at an early age, had become more and more defiant until the ultimate offence had been bestowed on the family name when the boy had been arrested, charged with rape and murder. It was this that Jonathan could not forgive. Kyle had made many mistakes in his short life, but most of them had been the blunders of an emotionally unstable child. Drunk driving, drug possession, smoking and drinking in public; all things Jonathan was willing to overlook because nobody else but Kyle had been hurt by it. But neither murder nor rape was something that Jonathan could condone. And no matter how hard it had been to stand back and not use his considerable power to get Kyle off the hook, he had done so anyway because the charge alone had broken his heart. To see the last remainder of Alice so shamed, so debased ... he would be incapable of facing the world if he allowed that to be his legacy.

  Now that he learned that Kyle was innocent, had in fact taken the blame to protect someone else ... he was angry about this; angry with himself for not listening to Kyle's plea of innocence and angry with a system that no longer cared to investigate crimes properly. And there would be hell to pay.

  ***

  Steven Sanders was not a man used to being ordered around. In his position as head of the Governing Council of Pangaea, he held a station that most saw as a likeness to that of a president or a king in earlier days before the unification of Earth. He had a lot to say and a lot of power to wield and both of these things usually meant he ordered others around. But there were those that were indirectly above him, those that paid his substantial salary, and Jonathan Whitmore, III, was one of those men. So when he called, Steven came running.

  Of course he knew what this direct order to appear before Whitmore Sr. was all about. He had been informed about the change in the case, had been informed that the man who had committed the crime had been caught, convicted and sent to his doom. So he knew that Whitmore Sr. would soon call on him to right the wrong done to his son. And under normal circumstances he would have been more than happy to comply. But this was not one of those circumstances and it made him a tad nervous, because Whitmore Sr. was known for his flaring temper when things didn't go his way.

  He stepped off the elevator and into the elaborate and - he had always thought - gloomy front office where Marie Hellman, Whitmore Sr.'s secretary and personal assistant, sat waiting. He nodded at her. "Marie," he said.

  "Mr. Sanders," she countered evenly, her dark eyes watching him intently. For such a tiny girl, she packed a lot of punch. Her attitude was almost a match for Whitmore's.

  "Guess he's pretty upset, huh?" he asked and straightened his tie, his eyes on the double doors leading into the inner sanctum.

  "That's putting it mildly, sir," Marie said. "He's expecting you. Go right in."

  Steven nodded once and then stepped toward the double doors, which swung open of their own accord. He stepped inside and felt the slight air pressure when the doors swung shut behind him again.

  "Mr. Whitmore," he said, announcing his presence although he had no doubt that the man knew he was here.

  Whitmore's chair had its back to the room with the scenery of Pangaea's capital spreading out beneath them like a toy city. For a long moment there was no reply and no reaction, then the chair turned around and Steven met Whitmore's piercing eyes. "Have a seat, Steven," he suggested and waved an almost bony hand at the chairs in front of his massive mahogany desk.

  Steven assumed it was best to comply without question right now. After all, Whitmore had the power to drive him out of office if he so chose. Generally, the multi-millionaire was not one to abuse his station. There was no need for that. But Steven was certain that if pushed far enough, Whitmore was likely to take drastic steps to accomplish what he wanted. "I assume that you've been told about ... your son's case."

  "I have, yes," Whitmore said, his tone slightly grating. "And, needless to say, I'm very upset about this bit of news. What in the name of creation went wrong?"

  Steven folded his hands and laid them on his thighs. As long as Whitmore remained this docile, things would work out. But he feared the other man would not remain in this state when his forthcoming request was denied. "Everything, from the looks of it. It has been speculated that your son took the blame, because the man in question supplied him with illegal substances. He must have assumed that you would come to his rescue before he could be sentenced, and when you didn't ... well, he obviously was either too stubborn or too foolish to admit that it was a ruse."

  Whitmore's expression tensed a little. "He was neither," he said quietly. "He raised objections, but neither the judge presiding over the case nor I were willing to listen." He seemed to ponder the situation for a moment, his expression bland. Then he focused on Steven again. "It is unfortunate, but perhaps this stay in LPC has taught him a lesson," he finally said. "Now, how do we go about retrieving him and bringing him back to Pangaea?"

  This was the moment Steven had dreaded and he took a few seconds to compose himself before he answered. During those seconds, the look in Whitmore's eyes changed character. The man was no fool. He had to have some idea of what lay ahead. "I'm sorry, Mr. Whitmore, but ... that's not going to happen. There is no way to retrieve him from LPC. Once he is a resident there, it is for life."

  The seconds ticked by while Jonathan Whitmore stared at him with eyes as hard as rock. "What?" he finally asked.

  "The system was set up in a way that makes it impossible for anyone to get out of there. There are airlocks, of course, but there is no way to attach anything to them to make them airtight. In other words, there is no possible way that we can retrieve Kyle from LPC. And, what's more, the Governing Council has agreed on that doing so would cause an unnecessary uproar among the citizens of Pangaea. People have been assured that LPC is escape-proof. A rescue mission would cause ... a panic. We can't risk it. Even if it were possible, we couldn't risk it." While he spoke, he watched the other man carefully, noting any signs of an impending explosion, but what he saw was nothing but cold hard ice.

  Whitmore considered this for a bit, his expression tight, his eyes locked on Steven. Then he leaned forward. "Your cops made a mistake, Steven. They sent my boy to prison - and not just any prison. And now you're telling me that you have no intention of correcting this mistake?"

  "I am telling you, Mr. Whitmore, that I have no way of correcting this mistake," Steven corrected him. "If it were up to me alone, I would have no issues with it. But it is not. I may be the head of the Governing Council, but that does not mean I have the final say. We have to agree unanimously and we did not. We deliberated for several hours yesterday on this matter and the decision, unfortunately, has been what I have presented here today. You have my sincerest apologies for this, but this is out of my hands. There is nothing more I can do."

  Whitmore Sr. stared at him for a moment longer, then he leaned back again, propped his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers. "I see," he said quietly while the air around him almost turned frosty. "Well, thank you for coming, Steven. I appreciate your candor."

  'In other words: Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out', Steven thought and rose. "I am truly sorry, Mr. Whitmore," he repeated, which earned him nothing but a curt nod.

  Dismissed like some errand boy, Steven left the office again and didn't even bother saying goodbye to Marie. It wasn't her fault, of course, but Steven was not happy being treated like that, no matter who was at the serving end. He had no intention of trying to sway the seven others. It would do no good and even if he felt it might, he still wouldn't do it. The world already catered too much to people like Jonathan Whitmore, III. There was no need to inflate the man's ego further.

  ***

  Jonathan had expected nothing less. It was no surprise that Steven Sanders turned him down. He knew the rules as well as anyone did and, like it or not, he could not really blame the man for turning him down.

  "That doesn't mean I won't find other ways," he growled under his br
eath. "Marie?" he called almost softly, activating the com-system.

  "Yes, Mr. Whitmore, sir," she replied instantly.

  "Would you please join me? I need to gather my thoughts on how to proceed on this and could use your valuable insight," he said.

  "Right away, sir," she said and a second later she swept into the office, took a seat across from him and watched him intently while the doors to the office swung shut in her wake.

  There was absolutely nothing he could do right now without her input.

  ***

  On the dark side of the Moon

  The urge to strangle Pete kept hovering over Kyle's head like a dark cloud. He knew his limitations and he knew that sooner or later, he would let Pete have it, would tell him exactly how he felt about all of this and how much he wished he could take it out of Pete's hide; but not yet. He still needed to know if Pete had any information about his case. After that, everything was up for grabs.

  They strode through the tunnel to dome 2 and Kyle headed down the passage that led to the room where Stan was hiding; Stan who had obviously been raped repeatedly by five sickos, who deserved nothing better than to be eaten by whatever was hiding in dome 6. He glanced sideways at Pete. Maybe it also liked pale meat?

  He sneered at his own thoughts. No matter how much he might dislike Pete, this was something he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy. Handing Pete over to those bastards was not part of his plan. Not now, not ever, no matter how often the urge to do just that crossed his mind.

  He counted doors silently in his head, ignoring Pete's feeble attempts to strike up a conversation, and stopped dead at the door to the room. It was open, the chair that had blocked it from the inside lay broken on the floor and the light bulb hung lit from the ceiling, illuminating an otherwise empty room. "Fuck," he hissed through clenched teeth and sent a look in both directions along the passage. "STAN?" he yelled, not really sure it was a good idea to draw attention to them right now. "STAN?"

  "Who's this Stan?" Pete asked and looked around nervously. "What's with the broken chair?"

  The moron twins had hung out around the junk pile. Maybe that was where the new guys had taken Stan? He frowned lightly. There was no way he could have taken on two powerhouses like the moron twins alone and there was no way he could take on five of the same type now. But the idea of what those freaks might be doing to Stan right now made his skin crawl. "Fuck," he bit out again and glanced at Pete. They were two, but at this point he would never count on Pete in a pinch. It was highly likely that Pete would hightail it out of there the second there was any sign of trouble.

  "Shouldn't we get out of here?" Pete asked.

  "Shut up for a minute. I'm trying to think here," Kyle snapped. What to do, what to do? He had no idea right now. All he could think of doing was to go back to dome 3 and ask for the help of the gardeners. They needed to find Stan, needed to liberate the guy; if for nothing other than to kill the budding nightmares Kyle's suddenly very vivid imagination might cause him. "Okay, we're going to have to get help," he finally said.

  "Do you know for sure that something's happened to this Stan?" Pete asked. He sounded neither interested nor worried. And why should he? He had no idea what this place was like or who Stan was, for that matter.

  "Yes," Kyle countered, even though he couldn't be sure. But then again, he felt it in his gut and the sooner they got to Stan, the less likely it was that the man would suffer any further indignities. "Let's move," he added and broke into a run.

  It took them less time than Kyle had thought to reach the center of dome 3, but it still felt like too long. Stella was still working on her saplings with Daniel right beside her, and Kyle briefly registered that the kid looked downright happy with his hands all dirty, the fleeting little saplings his to protect and nurture.

  "Stella," Kyle prompted and covered the distance in a few long strides.

  The older woman turned around to face him and gave him a once over, then shifted her astute attention to Pete. "Who's this?"

  "There'll be time for introductions later. One of the guys from dome 2, Stan, he's in a truckload of trouble," he countered urgently.

  That attracted Daniel's attention. "What's up with Stan?" he asked and stepped closer.

  Somehow Kyle didn't feel right about bringing this up with Daniel around. The kid had suffered more at the hands of the moron twins and their cohorts than anyone should have to and to know that five new perpetrators were roaming around dome 2 wouldn't sit well with him. But Kyle had no time to pay attention to the kid's possible sensitivities and instead aimed his attention solely at Stella. "The moron twins have been replaced and they've taken a liking to Stan."

  Obviously the woman was just as aware of Daniel's possible reaction to this as Kyle was, because she sent him a brief and concerned look. And with good right too, because Daniel paled considerably at this bit of news. She grabbed his arm as if to steady him, then turned her attention back to Kyle for a second. "Mike!" she called, then glanced off to one side in search of the other man.

  "You called?" If Kyle had ever had any doubts about who was in charge of the gardeners, this would have settled it for him. Mike strode across the compound toward them, his attention on Stella.

  "Get a few of the guys together and go with Kyle. Stanley Harrison is in trouble," Stella said, her tone even and tolerating no discussion; not that she would get any from Mike.

  "You got it," he agreed and walked off again to find those select few. What he came back with would have made the moron twins pale; three men Kyle hadn't noticed before. They were big, broad-shouldered and mean-looking. "Let's go," Mike said to Kyle.

  He felt no need to comment, merely turned and headed back the way he'd come, leaving Pete behind with Stella and Daniel. "I should go too," he heard Daniel say, which made him stop dead in his tracks so suddenly, that Mike almost plowed into him.

  "Sorry," Kyle said, then turned his attention toward the younger man, but he shouldn't have worried.

  Stella's hand was still locked around Daniel's arm. "No," she said sternly. "You're gonna stay right here with me. They can handle this."

  Daniel looked a little uncertain for a moment and then met Kyle's eyes. "But ..."

  "Listen to her," Kyle cut him off, turned around again and continued walking.

  ***

  Back in dome 2

  Assuming he knew where they were, Kyle led the way toward the junk pile. And even from a distance he knew his assumption was correct, because he could hear rowdy cat-calls.

  Mike grabbed his arm and pulled him to a stop. "Stay behind us. I think I know who we're up against," he suggested.

  Kyle nodded. He had no false sense of pride in his own masculinity. If taking a step back and letting these linebackers do the dirty work was what it took, he was more than okay with that.

  The four men took the lead and by the time they stepped out of the passage culminating at the junk pile, the five new perpetrators were in full swing, enjoying the chase. Mike stopped and folded his arms over his chest while watching the other men pushing Stan around like he was a toy they couldn't agree on sharing. The other three took up position behind Mike, spreading out a little. Kyle took up the rear and kept to the background, both curious and appalled at the same time.

  This went on for a moment longer and then Mike cleared his throat. All activity stopped instantly. Deprived of the eager hands waiting to shove him on to the next willing participant, Stan - already battered and bruised beyond recognition - stumbled and fell to his knees, one hand holding onto the torn waistline of his pants.

  The five - size-wise they had nothing on the three linebackers Mike had brought - sized Mike up, then shifted their attention to the three giants behind him. Uncertainty gleamed in their eyes. "What the fuck are you assholes up to?" Mike demanded calmly.

  One of the five, a haggard-looking older man with a nasty scar on his face, took a step forward. "Just having a bit of innocent fun," he said.
His attempt to sound brash didn't really work, though. His voice jittered just a little bit. He obviously knew who he was up against.

  "How many times do I have to tell you to keep it in your pants, Frank?" Mike asked, his tone almost friendly. Kyle had the impression that he was smiling when he unfolded his arms and took a step forward.

  "This ain't none of your business, Mike," Frank tried, the jitter in his voice more pronounced.

  "Is that so?" Mike quarried and glanced back at his posse. "Did you hear that, boys? This is none of our business."

  One of the linebackers tittered manically. "Can I show him how much this is our business?" he asked, his voice jumping with anticipation. "Can I, Mike?"

  The five glanced at each other, the uncertainty now morphing into fear.

  "Go ahead, Dunc," Mike agreed. And that was the end of the five. All three of the linebackers descended on them like carrion birds on tiny prey and within minutes all five of them were bloody and down for the count.

  Dunc had Frank in a choke-hold, his meaty fist drawn back to strike the other man in the face. But he held off, his gaze locked on Mike. The almost imperceptible nod from Mike was all it took and Frank passed on to the next level of existence when Dunc pulverized his face.

  The remaining four crawled away when Dunc let Frank's body drop and then straightened up, shaking out his fist. "Damn. His face was harder than I thought," he growled.

  Kyle watched this all without flinching and it struck him how unaffected he was by the death of another; even if it was a sleazebag like that.