Rebel Moon

by Bruce Bethke

"Dalton," Becker said, smiling, "who did you vote for in the last election?"

  He shrugged. "Von Hayek and the Independence Party, of course, just like everyone else. Not that it did any good."

  Becker nodded. "Well, you just watch News One, and I think maybe you'll like what you see. Becker out." Her window blanked and shrank. Dalton turned his attention to the news channel and bumped the volume up a notch.

  The view showed a room—some governmenty-looking thing, he thought. A line of people sat across the back of the room in front of a gray curtain and behind a lectern. He zoomed in and recognized faces: Veerhoven from Rheinhold Colony, Kozhevnikov from Volodya, Montclair from Von Braun ...

  Okay, another Council of Governors meeting. So what? They were just going to do a lot of talking and pass some more resolutions that would immediately be vetoed by the CLD. BFD.

  A flurry of polite applause came through the audio channel and got Dalton's attention. A moment later Pieter von Hayek stepped into view and took up his position behind the lectern. The applause peaked; von Hayek acknowledged it and gestured for quiet. The clapping slowly tapered away.

  Von Hayek shuffled some notes on the lectern, fiddled with his bifocals as always, then looked straight at the video pickup and smiled in the way that always made Dalton feel as if the governor was smiling directly at him, personally. That was the strange thing about von Hayek, Dalton thought. He'd met the governor in person once and mistaken him for the nerdy econ prof he used to be before he emigrated to the Moon and got into politics. But put von Hayek behind a lectern and in front of a TV camera and let him start talking, and all of a sudden he turned into someone the masses were willing to follow to the very ends of the Earth. Or farther.

  "Ladies and gentleman," von Hayek said softly, "my fellow citizens. The council and I labored long and hard to find exactly the right words for this moment. We consulted many historical documents"—Von Hayek paused to wrestle visibly with a catch in his throat—"and in the end we decided that there is no finer way to say it than this." He paused again, this time to bite his lower lip and wipe with a finger at a lone tear that had escaped from under his left bifocal lens.

  " 'We hold these truths to be self-evident,'" von Hayek began reading from his notes in a voice that was barely more than a choked whisper, and all the more powerful and captivating because of its softness. "'That all men and women are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.'" Von Hayek appeared to find strength as the words flowed, and his voice grew louder, and he stood up straighter.

  " 'That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.'" Von Hayek clearly abandoned his notes now, as well as all pretense of emotional restraint, and was working from memory. "'That whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form as to them shall seem most likely to protect the rights of the people and to ensure their safety and happiness!"

  Dara rolled over about then, and nudged Dalton firmly. "Honey," she murmured, "I don't mind if you play, but turn it down. I'm trying to sleep."

  Dalton nudged her right back. "I think you'd better wake up and see this." He pushed the flatscreen out to arm's length and turned the volume up to full.

  "'But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new guards for their future security.'"

  Dara was wide awake now. "Omigod," she whispered. "Is this for real?"

  Dalton nodded. "I think so. But I think von Hayek is quoting from something, and it sounds sort of familiar."

  Dara rolled over and gave Dalton the widest-eyed stare he'd ever seen. "It should. That's the Declaration of Independence."

  Antonio Aguila

  Historians continue to debate the question: what motivated Antonio Aguila? Some point to his wretched childhood in Chile and say he was a textbook example of Freudian over-compensation, striving all his life to make up for the deprivations and horrors of his earliest years. Others point to his privileged upbringing after he was adopted out of a refugee camp and brought to the United States. They say he was a supremely ambitious and cynical man who made every move with one eye on the goal of someday reaching the secretary-general's office.

  A third school of thought is perhaps the most disturbing. It holds that Aguila was that most dangerous of men, a true believer in the United Nations and its goal of a peaceful, unified world. According to this theory, Aguila was so blinded by the rightness of his vision that he completely failed to realize he'd become what he professed to hate most: an imperialist of the first order, willing to do or say anything in his pursuit of a higher good.

  — Chaim Noguchi, A History of the Lunar Revolution

  Chapter 4

  UN Headquarters, New York

  24 October 2069

  5:58 P.M. EST

  Antonio Aguila stood in the wings, surreptitiously watching the crowd of reporters who were chatting and jostling for space in the packed briefing room.

  "You look thoughtful," Allegria said. "Care to share?"

  "Poodles," Aguila said.

  Allegria only looked puzzled.

  "I was thinking of poodles," he clarified. "Or perhaps Lhasas—you know, lapdogs. Leave them alone and they spend all their time nipping at each other's heels and sniffing each other's tails. But step into the room and hold high a morsel and you have their undivided and obedient attention." He turned to Allegria, smiled tightly, and nodded slightly in the direction of the reporters. "What do you think? Shall I make them sit up on their hind legs and beg?"

  Allegria was saved from answering by Jurgen Flanders, who burst through the back door just then. "Senor Aguila! I can't find Lord Haversham anywhere!"

  Aguila waited a cold, silent interval, calculated to convey just what he thought of Jurgen's entrance. On the whole, Aguila found his newly assigned assistant to be too blond, too Euro, and too excitable; but he was also proving to be too energetic to simply get rid of.

  The seconds ticked by. Just when he sensed Jurgen was about to speak again, Aguila answered. "Did you try his apartment?"

  "Yes, and—"

  "And all of his favorite restaurants?" "Yes, and—"

  "Then when you have eliminated the obvious, Jurgen, what is left?"

  The younger man simply looked at Aguila with his blank, blue-eyed Nordic baby face.

  "Jurgen," Aguila said, not unkindly, "I want you to check every bathhouse and steam room between here and Times Square."

  Those pale blue eyes went wide. "But—"

  "Now, Jurgen. Go. Scoot." Aguila waved the young man on his way, then turned back to Allegria. "Well, it's time. Shall we?"

  Allegria nodded quickly and, trailing a respectful three paces behind, followed Aguila out onto the dais.

  Sit! Aguila thought, as he surveyed the packed room. Roll over! Then the moment of shuddering terror struck him, as it always did, when twenty or more red-eyed TV cameras flared on like laser gunsights and the room erupted in a blinding sea of still-camera flash units, just like the artillery bombardment of Talcahuano. And for scant microseconds he was a shuddering five-year-old again, hiding in a stinking wet sewage culvert, suffocating under the weight of his dead older brother, and begging God for the flash and thunder of the bombs to stop, only when it did stop, it wasn't God, but a smiling man with a gentle voice and a sky-blue uniform ...

  The moment of terror passed, as always. Aguila made it to the lectern and tapped the central microphone a few times, more to get the reporters' attention than to test if it was working.

  The mob sat down. They grew quiet. Fighting the image of mouths hanging open with l
ittle pink tongues lolling out through rows of sharp white teeth, Aguila glanced at his notes and began to speak: "This afternoon at approximately five-thirteen New York time, a small terrorist splinter group calling itself the People's Eristic Nucleus for International Stasis temporarily disrupted all communications between Earth and the Lunar Colonies."

  There was shocked silence for a second, then an eruption of questions. Aguila waved the reporters down, and when they were all sitting again, resumed.

  "I have spoken with Director Mobutu in the UNCOMM, the Office of World Telecommunications. He assures me that we have recovered complete control of all satellites and data channels. However, there is some evidence that the terrorists may have planted viruses, logic bombs, or other hostile software in the lunar end of the telecommunications system. Therefore, the Committee on Lunar Development has reluctantly taken the painful step of ordering all commercial and private channels shut down until such time as our UNET engineers can verify the safety and integrity of the system."

  This time, the shocked silence stretched on much longer.

  "Again, we realize that this action is quite inconvenient and may even seem alarming, and it is only with the greatest reluctance that we have taken it. But with the memory of the North Korean reactor virus so fresh in our memory"— this drew a shocked gasp from the reporters, which was exactly the reaction Aguila was looking for—"we on the CLD felt it was much safer to err on the side of excessive caution."

  The buzz in the room turned into a positive and supportive murmur. Aguila, starting to feel confident about the spin he was putting on this story, went for the clincher.

  "Two points need to be stressed. The first is that this was the action of a small group of deeply disturbed people; in no way does it reflect the feelings of the majority of the Lunar Colonists. The Council of Lunar Governors remains fully committed to the peaceful resolution of our few minor political differences and in fact is providing invaluable assistance to UNISAS personnel in the identification and apprehension of the parties responsible for this act."

  Looking out into the room, Aguila saw a few heads beginning to nod, then more. Inwardly he snickered at the way the norte-americano reporters prided themselves on their "objectivity," but outwardly he kept his face stern and confident.

  "The second point is that at no time was there any threat to the hydroponic food factories or the automatic cargo launching sites. These facilities are now and will remain safely in United Nations hands, and they will continue to operate at full capacity. The rumors of impending food shortages are just that—wild rumors with absolutely no basis in fact. This is exactly the sort of hysteria the terrorists were hoping to generate by their actions, and anyone who repeats these rumors is playing into the terrorists' hands."

  Aguila finished reading his statement and paused to survey the sea of bobbing heads, at last confident that he had the reporters in his pocket. He smiled. "Now, are there any questions?"

  "Senor Aguila!" a woman in the front row with thick blond hair called out. "Is it true that the SAS has already identified the alleged terrorists?"

  Aguila shook his head demurely. "I am not at liberty to comment on that. I can, however, repeat that the Council of Lunar Governors is cooperating fully with us, and we expect to begin making arrests shortly."

  A man in a blue suit with plastic hair replaced the blond woman. "Senor Aguila, does the Office of World TeleComm have an estimate of how soon full UNET access will be restored?"

  Aguila shook his head again. "All I can say there is that we have the fullest confidence that UNCOMM will spare no effort to make sure the system is safe and virus-free. If that means an outage of several days, well, it is regrettable but necessary."

  Six more hands shot up. "Senior Aguila!" Allegria tapped him on the shoulder and gave him his exit cue. Aguila leaned forward and smiled.

  "I'm sorry. I would very much like to provide you with more details, but that is all we can say at the present time. The Committee on Lunar Development will issue press releases as soon as more information becomes available. Good day." Aguila smiled again, nodded, and stepped away from the lectern. Fighting the urge to flee the barrage of flash units and shouted questions, he strolled crisply off the dais, followed by Allegria.

  The moment they got offstage, he turned to her. "Well? How do you think it went?"

  Allegria nodded, a glint of admiration in her dark brown eyes. "Perfectly. If I hadn't known better, I'd have believed it myself." She found an isolated corner, pulled Aguila aside, and dipped a hand into her blazer pocket. "In the meantime they've found General Buchovsky. He's waiting on the scrambled line." She pulled out a phone and passed it to Aguila.

  Aguila punched in the verification code for the scrambler, put the phone to his ear, and was greeted by a stream of guttural and profane Russian. He endured the outburst, then smiled. "And a pleasant good morning to you too, Fyodr. What time is it there? Three A.M.? Four?" He held the phone away from his ear as another torrent of obscenities poured forth.

  "Da," Aguila said when the well ran dry. "I understand what an inconvenience this is, and I'm certain she is beautiful. But, General, we have an urgent situation developing. Da, on Luna." This time the general's response was far more subdued.

  "Nyet," Aguila said, shaking his head. "We're still trying to pull together a quorum, but it may not get to a vote tonight."

  The general muttered a protest.

  "Nyet, nyet, I would never try to bypass the Security Council, Fyodr, you know that. But I also know how much you hate getting blindsided by these political things."

  The general's brain was apparently up to full speed now, for his next speech was a series of short, pointed questions.

  Aguila checked his watch. "Within eighteen hours, I expect. And you know the Security Council. Once they make a decision, they will expect you to act on it yesterday." Aguila nodded. "Da, no problem. You're welcome. Do svidaniya." Aguila folded up the phone and handed it back to Allegria. She looked at him, an unspoken question in her deep brown eyes.

  "Buchovsky is with us," Aguila answered. "The rest of the committee is with us. Now all we have to do is find that wretched Haversham."

  Office of the Governor, Port Aldrin

  24 October 2069

  23:58 GMT

  Patrick Adams knocked gently, then went in without waiting for a response. "Governor, it's almost midnight. They aren't going to answer."

  Pieter von Hayek sat in his black chrome chair, fingers tented, chin on his chest, bifocals on the desk before him, staring blankly into space. He neither moved nor spoke.

  Adams decided to try humor. "C'mon, gov. It's the UN. They're constitutionally incapable of making decisions. It's seven in the evening, New York time, and they're probably still out trolling the bars and brothels, trying to round up enough diplomats to make one functional brain." He forced out a dry chuckle.

  No response from von Hayek.

  Adams grew worried. The governor's cardiac problems had always been a badly concealed secret, and now von Hayek seemed unusually pale and drawn. Adams took a step forward and reached for von Hayek's left wrist.

  Von Hayek testily snatched it away. "I'm fine, thank you." He glared at Adams for a moment; then his gaze softened, and he sighed. "Sorry I snapped. I just... I don't understand this." He bit his lower lip and shook his head in frustration. "Threats, bargaining, acceptance, rejection: I expected Kinthavong or the CLD to do or say something by now. But this silent waiting—"

  "Is maddening. I know." Adams arched an eyebrow, cocked his head, and caught the governor's eye. "Did you ever consider that maybe it's deliberate? That they want you to sweat?"

  Von Hayek shrugged. "Why? That would require a strategy, which implies some degree of cogent thought, which we know is impossible for them. Besides, that would only escalate the tension and make it harder to negotiate. They'd almost be daring us to shut down the food factories."

  "Exactly." Adams stared coolly at von Hayek, watching the i
dea seep in. Not for the first time, Adams was slightly surprised at how von Hayek could be so brilliant in some areas of politics and such a babe in the woods in others. Well, thought Adams, after all, he does prefer chess to poker.

  Von Hayek sighed, then sat up and blinked rapidly, as if suddenly realizing where he was. "I've got to get out of this office," he said as he reached for his bifocals and put them on. "But I couldn't possibly sleep now. Any suggestions, Patrick?"

  Adams smiled and helped von Hayek out of his chair. "Well, gov, there's one hell of an Independence Day party going on down in Broadway Gallery, and about ten thousand citizens want to buy you a drink. Let's start there."

  Von Hayek started for the door, then paused briefly as a frown crossed his face. "You sure this'll be okay?"

  "Relax. Yuji Nakagawa is on watch with your boy, Josef. If the CLD tries anything stupid, which they won't, Yuji and Josef will let me know." Adams patted the jacket pocket that contained his phonewire and smiled.

  Von Hayek nodded. "After you, then, Mr. Adams."

  Adams shook his head. "No, sir. After you, Mr. President." Von Hayek went out, and Adams shut off the office lights and followed him.

  "You know, Patrick, I don't like that title. Let's think up a new one. How about 'first councilor'?"

  "Tomorrow, sir. There'll be plenty of time for that tomorrow."

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  24 October 2069

  10:22 P.M. EST

  Captain Eileen Mahoney was conducting the post-op review, and unlike Captain Mahoney, it was not pretty. "Okay, kids, let's take it from the top one more time. What was the point of UrbPac Six?"

  Lieutenant Malcolm Jamal looked around at the five other dispirited junior officers in the room, then grudgingly raised his hand.

  Mahoney nodded at him. "Jamal?"

  "Sir," Jamal said, in a flat voice. "Urban Pacification Exercise Six was a domestic urban guerrilla containment scenario, sir. Our objective was to eliminate armed resistance and secure tactical control of four square blocks of a city. Sir."