by Ben Bova
“Your son’s declaration of Moonbase’s independence has not been carried by the media,” he said slowly. “There is a blackout on news about Moonbase. Even here in the States the media have acceded to Faure’s request for restraint.”
“This isn’t about Moonbase,” Joanna replied impatiently. “This is about the secretary-general of the United Nations telling the world he’s going to enforce the nanotech treaty when he’s really planning to use our nanomachines for his own purposes.”
She watched his expression intently. Does he already know about this? Has he already cut a deal with Faure?
At last Rashid said, “That does cast a new light on the situation. Perhaps the media would be interested in such a story. Do you have any evidence to back it up? Any corroboration?”
Suddenly Joanna felt wary. “Plenty,” she said, thinking to herself, Omar could be part of Faure’s scheme. He’s never been a supporter of Moonbase.
Almost as if thinking out loud, Rashid murmured, “There is a reporter on board the Clippership heading for Moonbase.”
“I don’t want a reporter,” Joanna said. “I want all the networks. I want every news service on Earth!”
“But the commsats have been programmed to reject all transmissions from Moonbase.”
“I don’t need the commsats. How do you think we’re talking? The technicians here can beam my transmissions to any spot on Earth, almost. All the news services have optical receivers on their rooftops.”
Rashid was silent far longer than the three seconds it took for the round-trip transmission from Moon to Earth and back again.
“Perhaps Faure would be willing to speak with you, after all,” he said at last. “Let me see if I can reach him and get him to listen to reason.”
“Good,” said Joanna. “We’ve only got a little more than two and a half days before the Peacekeepers land here.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Don’t let Faure delay until his troops land. I won’t wait that long. Tell him he’s got twenty-four hours to get in touch with me. Or else I go to the media.”
“Harkening and obedience,” said Rashid, just as he did in the old days when Joanna was chairman of the board and he was only a rising young executive.
TOUCHDOWN MINUS 38 HOURS 30 MINUTES
Edith’s nausea was almost completely gone. A tendril of unease persisted deep inside her, but she thought it was probably more psychological than physical now. She still felt slightly dizzy whenever she moved her head too fast, but the moment passed quickly.
In fact, floating free in zero gravity was fun! She had set up her two minicams in the spacecraft’s cargo bay, amid bulky crates marked AMMUNITION: 9 MM: FRANGIBLE and GRENADES: CONCUSSION: MARK 17/A.
She had interviewed two ordinary troopers, a shy teenaged boy from Bangladesh and his sergeant, a tough no-nonsense Cuban woman. It was like interviewing athletes: monosyllabic answers, platitudes, and long, perplexed silences.
Edith checked her hair in her hand mirror. It was floating nicely; not so wild that it would distract the viewer, just enough to show what weightlessness could do. The cameras were tightly tethered to a pair of tied down crates so they wouldn’t bob around; there were no girders or other projections on the smooth curving bulkhead of diamond on which to secure them.
Captain Munasinghe glided through the hatch, trying to look as if he was unaffected by zero gee. He had removed the medication patch from behind his ear, but Edith saw faint rings there, like the scars from an octopus’s suckers, and wondered how comfortable the captain really felt.
He was small and slim, dark skin shining as if it had been oiled. He had put on a fresh uniform, Edith saw, crisp and clean. His eyes were his best feature, large and dark and somehow fierce-looking. They’ll show up great on camera, she thought. But he’s so little, I’ll look like a horse next to him.
Then she smiled to herself. Zero gee to the rescue. I’ll just let him float higher off the deck than I do. Keep the focus tight, head and shoulders. He’ll look taller than me and I’ll bet he’ll love it. Realistic journalism.
“I just want to ask you a few questions, Captain Munasinghe,” she said, trying to put him at ease. “Just look at me and ignore the cameras.”
“Yes. Fine.”
“Ready?”
Munasinghe nodded, then licked his lips.
Wondering who had taught him to do that, Edith pressed the switch on her remote control wand and said, “Okay, here we go.”
She arranged herself facing Munasinghe and slightly below him, so his head topped hers by a few centimeters. Camera one held the two-shot; the second camera focused on the captain’s face. Edith would do her reaction close-ups afterward; they would be spliced in Earthside as cutaways.
“Here with me now is Captain Munasinghe of the United Nations Peacekeeping Force, the commander of this mission to the Moon,” said Edith.
“Captain Munasinghe, how do you feel about leading forty armed troops to Moonbase?”
Munasinghe drifted closer to her as he replied, “The Peacekeepers were created by international agreement to enforce the decisions of the United Nations’ secretariat. Moonbase is violating the terms of the nanotechnology treaty, therefore we have been dispatched to the Moon to put an end to this violation.”
“Yes, but how do you feel personally about this mission?”
“I am proud to bear the responsibility of carrying out the United Nations’ decision to enforce the nanotechnology treaty,” he said. It sounded like a parrot repeating a line it had been laboriously taught.
The interview teetered between a disaster and a farce. Munasinghe had canned answers for every question she asked, undoubtedly written in New York for him to memorize. Worse, he kept pushing so close to Edith that she thought he wanted to rub noses with her. She could smell the cloying, faintly acrid odor of whatever breath treatment he had gargled.
She unconsciously moved away from him, trying to maintain a proper distance for their interview, but he kept moving in on her. In the back of her mind Edith remembered that different cultures have different ideas of the proper distance for social intercourse, but this was going out on the network, for chrissakes! It’s going to look like he’s coming on to me.
The cameras tracked them automatically, but after only a few minutes Edith’s back bumped against one of the cargo crates and she could retreat no farther. Munasinghe hovered before her, his breath making her want to gag, his burning eyes boring into hers as if he intended to rape her.
Edith was about to give up all pretense of trying to conduct a rational interview and wind it up as quickly as she could, but some inner determination was urging her to get something, anything out of Munasinghe.
In desperation, she gestured with her free hand to the crates of munitions around them. “Do you think you’re really going to need all this firepower against the people of Moonbase? After all, they’re unarmed, aren’t they?”
“They claim that they are unarmed, yes.”
“You don’t believe that?”
“I am a soldier,” Munasinghe said, eyes burning into her. “I must be prepared for the worst that the enemy could possibly do to us.”
“But what could a gaggle of scientists and technicians do to a platoon of fully-armed Peacekeepers?”
“We don’t know, but we must be prepared.”
“With hand grenades and explosives?”
“With every weapon at our disposal,” Munasinghe said, without an instant’s hesitation. “If the people of Moonbase offer the slightest opposition, we are prepared to use whatever level of force is required.”
Edith’s breath caught in her throat. “You mean you’re prepared to kill them?”
“If necessary. Yes, of course.”
“Even though they’re unarmed?”
He jabbed a finger in her face. “You keep saying they are unarmed. How do we know this? How do we know what kinds of weapons they may have at Moonbase? I am responsible for bringing Moonbase under Uni
ted Nations’ jurisdiction. I am responsible for the lives of my troops. If the enemy offers the slightest resistance, the slightest provocation, I have ordered my troops to shoot.”
“Shoot to kill?” Edith was surprised at how hollow her voice sounded.
“When you are in battle you don’t have the luxury of attempting to merely wound your enemy. Shoot to kill, yes, of course.”
“At the slightest provocation?”
For the first time, Captain Munasinghe smiled. “I have served in Eritrea, in Colombia, and against the Armenian terrorists. Believe me, you do not give an enemy a second chance to kill you. Not if you want to survive the engagement.”
“Let me get this straight,” Edith said. “You’re saying that you’ve ordered your troops to shoot to kill at the slightest sign of resistance from the people of Moonbase.”
“At the slightest sign of resistance,” Munasinghe affirmed. “Better to destroy Moonbase and everyone in it than to return to Earth with our mission a failure.”
Edith swallowed hard, then said, “Thank you, Captain Munasinghe.”
She had to push herself past him, then forced a smile as she looked straight into camera one and concluded, “This is Edie Elgin, in space with the U.N. Peacekeeper force, on the way to Moonbase.”
Munasinghe drifted back, then asked, “Is that all? Is it finished?”
“That’s it,” said Edith, hoping he would go away.
“Was it satisfactory? Can I see it?”
Wearily, Edith ran the abbreviated interview on camera one’s monitor. Munasinghe watched himself, fascinated. Edith wondered if the network suits would play the interview. They had made it clear they wanted to cooperate with the U.N., and this interview could stir a lot of hostility toward the Peacekeepers if it was aired.
No, she told herself, they’ll play it. They’ll have to. So the U.N. bitches about it, so what. This is news.
TOUCHDOWN MINUS 27 HOURS 51 MINUTES
The mercenary returned to his quarters and sat on his bunk. The time to strike is nearly here, he told himself.
The situation was almost ludicrous. The more he thought about the base’s electrical power supplies, its life support systems, its total lack of weaponry or military capability, the more he realized that a single man like himself could bring the entire base to its knees.
They won’t need a ship full of Peacekeepers. I can do it all by myself.
But the Peacekeepers were on their way and there was almost nothing that the inhabitants of Moonbase could do to stop them.
Why assassinate the leaders when they can’t offer any resistance? Just knock out their electrical power system and they’re helpless. It won’t make any difference if Doug Stavenger lives or dies; Moonbase will cave in as soon as the Peacekeepers arrive.
The mercenary got down onto the floor in front of his bunk and folded his legs into the lotus position. Resting the backs of his hands on his knees, he closed his eyes and murmured his mantra, seeking harmony and understanding.
He saw in his mind’s eye what he always saw. His ten-year-old brother in convulsions, dying of the zip he had snorted while their mother lay sprawled on the sofa, too dazed with the same shit to phone for help. He saw his six-year-old self locked in the dark roach closet because he’d been a bad boy, watching his brother die through the closet door keyhole, listening to the screams that turned into strangled, choking sobs and finally ended in a groan that still tortured his soul.
If I had been good, I wouldn’t have been locked in the roach closet. I could’ve helped Timmy.
He saw his mother die, too. She was the first person he ever killed. He was fifteen and a father but she still treated him like a little kid. Took the strap to him. He grabbed it away from her and swung it hard enough to knock her down. Her head cracked on the table leg and her eyes went blank.
He saw his first sergeant, as brutal a man as any, but fair and unwaveringly honest. And the old cowboy on the rifle range, the one who taught him how to shoot. And how to hunt.
Death was his companion always. His ancient friend. He was death’s best assistant. That was his destiny, his purpose in life: to bring people to death.
He opened his eyes. Deep within him the ancient calm had returned. There were no doubts, no qualms, no divisions within him. He was one again. Whole. Death was at his side, invisible but palpable, his oldest and best companion.
After all, he told himself, Stavenger’s entire life revolves around Moonbase. Take that away from him and he’s as good as dead anyway. I’ll merely be helping him to the place where he wants to be.
Still, he sighed.
TOUCHDOWN MINUS 20 HOURS
Joanna Stavenger actually felt nervous as she sat in her favorite armchair, waiting for Georges Faure’s call. The secretary-general had at first refused to speak to her at all, but the threat of telling the media that he planned to use nanomachines despite his public denouncement of them apparently had forced his hand.
Apparently, she reminded herself. The little bastard’s waited until the troopship is almost ready to land before agreeing to talk to me.
Faure had put up conditions. This was to be strictly a private conversation between the two of them. No third parties. And it was to be understood that he was speaking to her as a courtesy only, not in his capacity as secretary-general of the United Nations.
Joanna had agreed easily. She knew that Faure had no private existence; whatever he said to her was being said by the man who headed the U.N. And she conveniently forgot her pledge of privacy when she told her son that Faure was going to speak to her. Doug was not in her sitting room with her, but he was plugged into their conversation, in his own quarters.
Precisely at the appointed moment the synthesized voice of the communications system said, “Monsieur Faure is calling from New York.”
“On screen, please,” Joanna replied.
A window seemed to open on the wall before her and Faure’s face appeared, no larger than life-size. Joanna had programmed the smart wall that way; she had no desire to see Faure looming over her like an intimidating giant.
“Madame Brudnoy,” Faure said, with a polite little smile.
“Mr Secretary-General,” Joanna replied.
While she waited the three seconds for his reply, Joanna examined the room in which Faure was sitting. It didn’t look like an office; more like the living room of a spacious apartment in a high-rise building. She could not see much of the background behind him, but there was a window that looked out on the skyscrapers of Manhattan.
“I am not speaking as the secretary-general, Madame. This is a personal conversation between two private citizens.”
Joanna nodded an acknowledgement.
“May I say that you look radiant? And your apartment, from what I can see of it, seems quite charming. I had no idea such luxuries were to be found in Moonbase.”
Joanna had put on a tailored blouse of coral pink and a dark mid-thigh skirt: comfortable without being too dressy.
“Thank you,” she said. “This is my personal furniture. I had it brought up from Savannah years ago. I assure you, the other living quarters here are nowhere near as elegant.”
“I see,” said Faure, after the annoying lag. “The privileges of the wealthy.”
Joanna bit back the temptation to comment on Faure’s luxurious apartment. “I appreciate your taking the time to speak with me.”
This time it took more than three seconds for him to reply. His brow furrowed, his mouth pursed. At last he said, “Madame Brudnoy, it took a struggle with my conscience to decide to answer your request. I confess that my first instinct was to ignore it, and remain aloof from you and everyone else in Moonbase until this crisis is settled.”
“I think it’s always best to discuss problems frankly, face-to-face.”
His frown eased somewhat. “Yes, I agree. That is why I am speaking to you.”
“What about our declaration of independence?”
If the question jolted him,
Faure gave no indication of it. “Declaration of independence? Pah!” He snapped his fingers. “A transparent ploy to avoid complying with the nano-technology treaty.”
“A right of every nation,” Joanna retorted. “Just because we’re on the Moon doesn’t mean we don’t have the same rights as any other group of people.”
“You are not a nation,” Faure countered. “Moonbase is a division of a corporation.”
“Moonbase is a community of more than two thousand people. We have the right to be independent.”
His cheeks flushed, Faure waved both hands indignantly. “But you are not a nation! Two thousand people do not make a nation! You can’t even exist by yourselves without supplies from Earth. It is as if a group of people on an ocean liner declared themselves an independent nation. It is nonsense!”
“We are self-sufficient,” Joanna insisted. “We produce our own food. We can exist on our own without any help from Earth.” That was stretching things, she knew, and yet a part of her mind marveled at the realization that the stretch was not all that much. Moonbase could exist without help from Earth.
Faure made a visible effort to calm himself. “Madame Brudnoy, you know and I know that this so-called declaration of independence is nothing more than the smoke screen, the camouflage to disguise the fact that you wish to continue using nanotechnology and evade the conditions of the treaty.”
“But you intend to continue using nanotechnology once you’ve taken over Moonbase,” Joanna said.
Once he heard her words, Faure’s face went from red to white, as if someone had slapped him.
He took a deep breath, then said evenly, “What makes you think that?”
Smiling, Joanna replied, “Don’t you think I have contacts inside Yamagata Corporation? Several of the board members of Masterson Corporation are also on Yamagata’s board.”
Faure sat in silence for several moments. Then he made a little shrug and admitted, “It is entirely possible that we will allow some work on nanomachines to continue, once we have taken over operation of Moonbase.”