The Powers of the Earth (Aristillus Book 1)

by Travis J I Corcoran

  As the bike crawled along Mike swiveled his head to check out the neighborhood, but his attention quickly turned to what he found really interesting - construction and infrastructure details. The overhead lighting looked like the newer Slimline Panels that he and Wam had been talking about. Who'd built out this space? Rob Wehrmann at General Tunnels? He made a mental note to give Rob a call and see what he thought of the panels.

  The nav box beeped again, and Mike pulled his attention down from the ceiling and walls to ground level. There: Rio San Pedro was a few storefronts up on the right, wedged in between a furniture showroom and a shop selling scooters. Mike slowed and maneuvered around a woman unloading bolts of fabric from a delivery skid, waited for some kids playing soccer in the street to run past, and then pulled to the curb and cut the ignition.

  Mike sat at the table and watched five young Mexican kids in the street playing a lopsided game of soccer, and then looked at his slate. The most recent Caterpillar and Komatsu catalogs were displayed side by side, but it was Tony Eiffong's margin notes that interested him most. Tony's menu of after-market mods had expanded recently. In addition to the dustproof bearing shields and ballast racks, there was a new strap-on automation package and an integration rack that promised to make conveyor belt loading easier. The conveyor belt solution was nice, but he'd already standardized on the Atlas system. The automation package, though - that was interesting. If it really cut labor costs by twenty percent like it claimed -

  An older Mexican woman carrying a basket of tortillas and a large steaming bowl approached the table with a smile. Mike pushed his motorcycle helmet to one side and nodded his thanks. He loaded the vinegary mix of squid meat and vegetables into a tortilla and ate sloppily as he flipped through the catalog.

  Tony's automation package said that it was designed for Caterpillar 825s - but it would work on the 827s, surely. He was flipping back a few pages to find pricing information when something about the conversation behind him tugged at his attention. Was it getting louder? He ignored the catalog and listened.

  Were they talking about him? Yes, he heard his name.

  He turned around in his chair.

  At the table behind him four college-aged kids stared at him. A vague sense of recognition tickled. Had he met them before?

  "Excuse me. Are you talking to me?"

  The four kids were taken aback, but the one guy - a round-faced kid - looked at one of the girls at his table, then turned to Mike. "You're Mike Martin, aren't you?" Mike was used to being recognized - it seemed that almost everyone in Aristillus knew his picture and wanted to buy him a meal or a beer - but this didn't have the feel of one of those interactions.

  Mike looked at the round-faced kid, trying to place him. The kid had a smirk, and Mike disliked him instantly. He caught the kid's eyes and held them. "What can I do for you?"

  "Aren't you even going to ask who I am? Or am I just another nobody to you?"

  Jesus. Who was this snot? He looked familiar - had Mike turned him down for a job or something? "If you've got a problem why don't you send an email, or make an appointment with my office?"

  The kid again looked at the women next to him again, then pushed back his chair and stood. "You don't care who I am?"

  Mike's eyes narrowed. There was something wrong about this situation. It wasn't dangerous, but it was off. Mike turned his chair so he wasn't looking awkwardly over his shoulder.

  "Why don't you tell me your name, tell me what your beef is, and I'll put you in touch with the right person." He paused. "And after that, you let me get back to my lunch, OK?"

  The kid walked around his table and advanced toward Mike. This joker wasn't going to get violent, was he? Mike's eyes took the kid in. He didn't seem the type - soft face, clean hands, and some kind of expensive pre-distressed jeans. If he'd been one of the African ex-mercs, Chinese toughs, or Texan roughnecks that usually ended up causing trouble in bars, Mike would be concerned - but this was just some idiot kid. Besides, it was early afternoon on a weekday, not 1am on a Friday night after payday.

  But, Jesus, the kid seemed to be giving off the signs. Mike stood.

  The kid clenched and released his hands, looked once over his shoulder at the girls, and then faced Mike and started speaking angrily. "I'm Hugh Haig! I'm not some laborer taking your money and bowing and scraping so you don't fire me. We're on to you. We know who you are, how you operate, and how you treat people. You can't treat me like some African peasant!"

  Mike looked around. The restaurant was mostly empty and the kitchen staff - a man, the old woman who'd served him, and two young girls - were behind the counter. The man seemed to be dialing a phone. Good. Security would be here soon.

  Mike turned to the kid. He'd said his name was Hugh something? That was familiar.

  And then Mike placed him.

  The name. The hostility. This was the senator's son, the one with the friend who'd killed himself in the spacesuit. The one who was doing those propaganda videos.

  That's where he'd seen the faces. This jackass and his friends had been thorns in Mike's side for months now. He felt his fists clench.

  Hugh advanced toward him. "You don't know who I am? Well, you've got that luxury -" he spat the word "- don't you? You don't need to interact with the little people, do you? People are just resources to you, to use up and throw away. You and your kind -".

  The kid went on. Mike ignored his words and watched his hands. He was a few inches shorter than Mike, and even though he was few decades younger, he carried himself like he wasn't sure what his body was for. Mike wasn't a brawler, but he hit the squat cage once a week, jogged or worked the heavy bag now and then, and when he lost patience with the slowness of some junior member of his maintenance crew, he was known to demonstrate the right way to wrestle a chain hoist around a Komatsu's road wheel.

  He wanted to just eat his lunch - but if he had to, he could take this kid.

  He hoped he wouldn't have to, though. Darcy would be amused under a superficial layer of disapproval, but beating up some soft college kid wasn't exactly going to cover him in glory with Javier or the Boardroom Group. And then the inevitable pictures on the front page of Moonlist.ari and, hell, maybe even SurfaceMining.ari would just make him look like an idiot.

  Mike made an effort to unclench his fists. He raised his hands in a placating gesture. "Look, kid -"

  The three girls with Hugh were standing, and the one with dark curly hair and the blue glass frames turned and walked away, heading past Mike and probably toward the exit. Good, one less distraction. And maybe the one woman leaving in disgust would make the kid realize he was making an ass out of himself. Hugh was still ranting. And then, without warning, the little bastard spit at him. Almost instantly Mike responded with a strong shove to Hugh's sternum. The kid stumbled backward into some chairs. Mike fished his phone out of his pocket. "Security here, now!"

  Mike turned back to Hugh. The kid was off balance and had a shocked look on his face. He was probably used to protesting campus offices or some shit, and had never realized that someone might fight back.

  Hugh came storming back, telegraphing a right punch from a kilometer away. Mike tucked his chin, raised his left arm - phone still in hand -and blocked. Most of the punch landed on his forearm but the kid's fist skipped from there into Mike's left cheek. Weak. The kid was off balance and stumbled forward. Chest to chest now, Mike reached with his right, grabbed Hugh behind the neck and pulled his head down into his own chest. The kid realized his mistake and tried to backpedal out of the clinch, but Mike held tight and delivered an uppercut jab with his left. The phone crunched in his fist and plastic shards bit into his palm. Fuck! He dropped the pieces and punched the kid three more times, his fist landing on the side of the kid's face again and again.

  Hugh kept trying to backpedal, but Mike held tight with his right. It was dirty boxing, but he had the kid tight, close, and neutralized. After a few more lefts Mike could let go, open up some distance, and wait for
security to arrive.

  Hugh, panicking, tried to claw Mike's face. Mike turned away and got another left punch in...and then their feet clattered into a spilled chair and they were falling. Hugh went over backward and Mike rode him down, landing on top.

  On the ground Mike hit the kid twice more and then let go and pushed himself off, rising to his knees. He wanted to disengage and get some distance so that security -

  There was a blur of motion and a mountain hit him.

  What? He was on his back and his thoughts were radically disconnected.

  Mike blinked. The lights overhead were bright.

  What was - where was his soup? The girl with the blue eyeglass frames - she was holding the round yellow thing. What was the word? The round yellow thing. For your head. When you ride your ... thing.

  Mike rolled to his stomach and tried to push himself to his knees. Tried. And failed. Legs weren't working. What?

  He looked up. The kid - that kid - was scrambling away. And there - the girl with the blue glass frames again.

  - and then everything fell apart.

  Mike felt a hot surge of vomit from somewhere deep inside. His stomach convulsed and throat opened wide. The mess coursed out and hit the floor just centimeters from his face, splashing across his hands, bouncing back into his eyes.

  His eyes stung.

  His head hurt.

  He fell face forward into the mess and passed out.

  * * *

  Louisa stood over Mike, his motorcycle helmet in one hand. Hugh scrambled to his feet. Louisa put the helmet down on a table, and then thought for a moment, grabbed a napkin, and quickly wiped the chin bar of the helmet where her fingerprints might be.

  She turned to Hugh, Allyson, and Selena. "We should get out of here. His rent-a-thugs are probably already on the way."

  Chapter 82

  2064: Kaspar Osvaldo's home, Aristillus, Lunar Nearside

  Dinner at Kaspar's house had turned into a standing weekly invite, so Captain Matthew Dewitt had a houseplant for Kaspar's wife Marianela in one hand and a bottle of wine tucked awkwardly under his opposite elbow as he approached the door. The bottle slipped when he rang the doorbell, but in the lunar gravity he easily grabbed it long before it hit the porch.

  The door opened. "Neil, come in!"

  From behind Kaspar, Dewitt heard a small high voice. "Neil! Neil!"

  Kaspar looked down at his son as the boy tried to push past to greet the electrician. He raised his voice. "Ignacio!"

  The boy bent his head in apology. "Sorry, papa. I know." After the briefest moment of contrition he looked back up, the excitement back on his face. "Hello, Señor Keenum!"

  "Hey Ignacio." Dewitt handed the bottle to Kaspar and then reached into his pocket for the toy. "I brought something for you."

  * * *

  Dewitt pushed away the bowl, empty except for a few crumbs of apple pie crust and a wash of melted ice cream. He was stuffed.

  Kaspar was a better contact than he'd realized when he'd first befriended him. He wasn't just an engineer; he was an astute observer, a history fanatic - and even a bit of a philosopher.

  Kaspar continued "...each for a different reason. Take the Nigerians, for example. They were on the losing side of the civil war. A lot of them saw the atrocities close up, and those who didn't either knew someone who did, or lost family members, or were thrown out of their homes. They hate PKs - and American troops too."

  Matthew couldn't argue against too vehemently without calling his cover into question, but he felt the need to push back, at least a bit. "That's not really fair. American troops were in Nigeria, sure, but they were doing ecological reclamation. They weren't involved in the torture camps."

  Kaspar looked at him and shook his head sadly. "Come on now. Everyone knows that the Americans were funding, arming, and advising the PKs. Hell, there are videos of American advisors - not just with the PKs, but at the camps! Even the Wikipedia cabal eventually gave up on suppressing that."

  Matthew sighed. He'd heard the rumors. He hadn't wanted to believe them. But he did.

  "Even if American troops did participate in the debriefings, most of their work was-"

  "Green projects? Is that supposed to be much better? How do you think a Nigerian feels when the farm that was in his family for a century is taken away and turned into a park? You should meet my friend Odunayo. Let him tell you about the Population Board moving his family from Markudi and into a relocation camp, and seeing his family church turned into a mosque." He shook his head. "No, the Nigerians here hate the PKs. They get along with individual Americans, but they hate the American government almost as much as the peakers."

  Dewitt nodded. "So if the Nigerians hate the PKs -"

  "And the American government."

  Dewitt sighed inwardly. " - and the American government, then how do you think they'll react if there's an attempt at reunification?"

  "Reunification?" Kaspar reacted disdainfully to the term. "You mean conquest?" He shook his head. "Have you visited any of the rifle clubs or militias? Mike Martin and Javier Borda thought that they were going to have to pay people to join, but once the Nigerians heard about it, the CEOs practically had to pay them to stay away. No - PKs taking over here is impossible. The Nigerians will fight to the last man."

  Dewitt thought about this for a moment. "The Nigerians didn't fight the PKs much in Nigeria. What makes you think that when the chips are down here they'll fight?"

  "In Nigeria the PKs disarmed everyone before they started their 'rebuilding.’ The Naijas learned from that. Besides, you don't have typical Nigerians here in Aristillus. Do you know anything about chemistry? Fractional distillation?"

  Dewitt shook his head.

  "Forget the analogy; my point is that Aristillus is full of lunatics!" Kaspar laughed, as if he meant the word as a compliment. "Three devs out on the bell-curve? Try five - or six. No, the Naijas here aren't anything like the ones back on Earth." He shook his head. "Come to think of it, neither are the Mexicans, Americans, or Chinese."

  At that point Marianela interrupted them. "You men go discuss politics somewhere else - we need to clean up here." On cue, Ignacio and his sisters stood and started clearing the table. Kaspar stood, bent and kissed his wife on the forehead.

  "Neil, come with me to my study and I'll tell you everything you want to know about the demographics of Aristillus."

  Chapter 83

  2064: Johnson Clinic Health Center, Aristillus

  Mike picked up the handheld device that controlled the painkiller in his IV drip.

  The pharma industry here in Aristillus wasn't perfect. The best cancer and Alzheimer's meds still hadn't been duplicated, but that wasn't much worse than being stuck on Earth: without the right health categorization certificate, the average man on the street couldn't get advanced drugs there either. Pain killers, though - they were available.

  Mike clicked for another dose of paracetamol.

  On the wallscreen the security cam footage of the fight - the ambush, really - finished playing. Mike waved at the screen to close the first video and bring up the anthology of cell phone videos that had been uploaded to (:buzz-buzz:).ari. The top-voted one had a good angle - he could see the faces of all four of college-aged kids. He froze the playback.

  Hugh Haig - son of Senator Linda Haig. The same asshole from that space-suit rental issue.

  Mike waved the wallscreen off and looked at his slate on the bedside table. He was too groggy from painkillers to pick it up and read it again, but he'd already read the private investigator's report.

  Hugh and his college friends had found a coyote in Valparaiso, Chile, had paid their fare in gold like everyone else, and had landed at Aristillus almost two months ago.

  The PI's report went much deeper, though: online posts, college class choices, political volunteering and more. Prestigious credentials, family money, lots of ideas about how to run everything, a willingness - an eagerness, even - to tell other people how to live their
lives. And no experience whatsoever of how the world actually worked.

  Thinking about it caused him to shake his head - and the nausea from the fractured skull washed over him. Oh, Jesus. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply.

  Eventually it passed.

  What had happened to the kids? A century ago American kids had been anti-authoritarian. They'd protested the military draft, they did drugs - heck, in the 1960s they'd all but tried to overthrow the government. By the time he was a kid things had already changed: his own generation had been mostly conformists, eager to please teachers. And now? In the 2060s the kids were full-on authoritarians. Any time there was a proposal to cut regulation or spending they'd hold a flash mob rally and shut down whole neighborhoods for a day - or a week. God forbid anyone suggested that grad school stipends should be frozen for a year; they'd probably burn down a city - after asking the neighborhood rationing officer for enough gasoline and carbon credits to do it.

  Mike paused and realized he wasn't being entirely fair. That sure seemed to describe the spoiled second-adolescence kids back on Earth, but he'd worked with a lot of good young men and women here in Aristillus. One of his best crew chiefs was - what? - 19? And the kid running the CNC firm that manufactured subassemblies for the Gargoyle rifles wasn't much older.

  No, the twenty-something expats he knew didn't conform to the pattern. But then again, pretty much no one in Aristillus conformed to patterns. That's why they were here and not back on Earth with their carbon permits, their MGI checks, and all the rest.

  Mike blinked. Jeez. He wasn't normally this ... whatever the word was. Wondering about things. Philosophical. He looked at the painkiller clicker in his left hand. How much had he taken?

  His head still hurt and he clicked the remote again. One more would be fine.