by RS McCoy
At last, Katherine leaned back in her chair with a hint of smile. “Go on.”
“You need to breathe clean, oxygenated air just like we do.” Her mind raced. She was desperate to avoid disappointing the woman. “You need the warmth of the core. Your bodies can’t resist the cold like ours.”
“And what does that mean for our survival?”
Mable folded her fingers around each other, fidgeting as she let her brain figure it out. “You can’t leave the underground.”
“Very good,” Katherine mused with all the feigned enthusiasm of an elementary teacher. “Dark Ones are the superior race in a subterranean environment, but we are not ready to sever ties with the surface. Until that time, we are dependent.”
Mable figured it out in an instant. “And you want me to get the last few items you need to become an isolated system.”
Katherine smiled, genuinely impressed, her thin lips stretched over her too-white teeth. “Exactly. I think with your cooperation, the Root can become the great city it was meant to be. Let the surface destroy itself, suffocate and starve. The sooner we are free of them, the better.”
Mable tried to quiet her pulse. This was her chance.
“What do you need?” There were only a few highly-specialized items that couldn’t be made. Whatever it was, Mable was confident it would be a challenge.
“A diode. Mitt will fill you in with the specs.” Katherine paused a moment and said, “If you do this, I’ll have great confidence in you. More than I have already.”
“Thank you.” Mable turned to go, to descend the narrow path back to the life-filled market, back to Hadley.
“There’s one more thing,” Katherine said to her back. When Mable turned, she uttered the words, so strange and impossible Mable’s jaw fell open.
“I want you to marry my son.”
AIDA
LRF-PQ-291
AUGUST 7, 2232
A slender, manicured hand pulled the black high heeled shoe onto her foot. Aida stood tall and checked her reflection, turning to see the back of her strapless dress and make sure she looked appropriate. Even on the moon, a funeral was no place for a fashion slip-up.
Besides, it helped keep her mind in the present. It gave her hands something to do.
The floor length mirror on the back of her wardrobe door was the only available place to get dressed. The tiny apartment held a bed for the two of them, a nightstand on each side, a wardrobe for each, and a pair of desks that folded into the wall when not in use. There was a mirror in their small bathroom but it was only useful from the waist up.
Aida was stuck trying on different shoes in front of her husband.
“You know no one else cares, right?” Sal sat on the edge of the bed and slid his plain black socks onto his feet. He was the picture of Scholar, boring black shirt and boring black pants. His blonde hair was combed, but still boring. His genetically engineered features were picture perfect, like everyone else. It wasn’t the first time she wondered if they had anything in common.
“I care, and that’s the important thing,” she replied as always.
Aboard the Lunar Research Facility, a city located in the scraped out remnants of the center of the moon, Scholars abounded. Mostly astronomers, astronauts, interstellar flight simulators, robotics experts, and a whole host of cosmic researchers, Aida should have fit in. She was a planetary scientist after all. She was living the Scholar dream, contributing to science in a meaningful way while living in an exotic and interesting colony.
Except she didn’t fit in. Sal wasn’t the first to notice she was the only one of a thousand researchers who cared what kind of fabric she pulled across her shoulders before spending day and night in the lab. She cared if her nails were trimmed or ragged, if her hair was flat or styled. Aida cared, even if no one else did.
It left her with more than a few questions about what she was doing there.
“Well, let me know if wasting time on all that helps you find Goldy.” Sal finished dressing and smeared a hand over his hair before deciding he was ready. Aida thanked the universe she would never have to actually touch her husband.
Satisfied with her own appearance and desperate to be out of the studio apartment they shared, Aida grabbed her ID badge off the hook and stepped into the corridor behind him.
Like a good Scholar couple, Aida and Sal walked next to each other, constant companions in their personal time, though still strangers in so many ways. Thankfully, unlike Artisans and Craftsmen, she wasn’t expected to hold his hand, clutch his arm, or participate in any other repulsive activity she’d seen from couples in other classes.
She was free to walk beside him in silence.
In two years, a geneticist would harvest her eggs and his sperm and isolate the ideal combination to implant into her uterus. Depending on their research success, they might be issued two or three child permits, the only light in her dim personal life. Otherwise, Aida and Sal were copilots, only interacting when required to do so.
Walking beside her husband in the life that should have been a dream come true, Aida couldn’t help but feel something was missing. She was engaged in her work, she loved the hours spent in her lab, but something was wrong. Something had been wrong for a long time.
She hoped the feeling was only her grief at losing Dr. Parr.
The corridor steadily filled with more and more Scholars in black, each to attend the funeral of a man few of them had known. In fact, none had known Jackson Parr better than her.
“Terrible thing, isn’t it?”
Aida looked up at the source of the voice and found Dr. Calvin Hill, one of the newest Scholars at the LRF, just arrived on the last shuttle three months ago. In a black suit and dark-green tie that matched his eyes, he had one of the most cavalier outfits she’d seen yet. Aida was strangely thankful for the change of scenery.
“Awful,” she admitted. Aida had genuinely liked Dr. Parr, had known him for years and studied under him at the Scholar Academy. And it would probably never sit right that she had been the last person to see him alive.
“I’m truly sorry for your loss. Death is never easy, but a situation like this can only be that much harder. Will you let me know if you need anything?” Calvin’s hand on her shoulder was an unaccustomed touch, both comforting and strange.
“Of course,” Aida replied too quickly, unsure of protocol.
“I hope that you will,” he continued, a warm smile illuminating his light complexion and deep, green eyes. “And whenever you’re ready, there’s a few things in the lab that could use an expert opinion.” His hand moved to offer a light squeeze to her elbow before he disappeared in the crowd.
“What was that about?” Sal inquired. His eyes never drifted from the slow stampede of black-robed scientists heading to the deepest depths of the hollowed moon, the largest gathering area and the only one that could hold the entire LRF staff.
“I’m not sure, I guess he has some data to go over,” she replied, though Aida knew perfectly well no data would come in for another twenty-four hours. Good thing Sal would never know the difference.
“How long will this take? I have some data to analyze myself.”
“I imagine about as long as the others.” Seven Scholars had died in the two years since Aida and Sal had received their lunar assignment, though none had had such a personal impact on her.
LRF Central was nearly full by the time they arrived, blending into the sea of black and finding a seat near the back. A hologram of Dr. Parr was projected on the edge of the stage, pacing back and forth with a tablet as he was prone to doing. Had it not been for the glint of holographic light, Aida might have thought it to be her dear mentor in the flesh.
But no, Dr. Parr was far wearier than that vibrant phantom. She hadn’t realized how sallow his cheeks had become, how dark the circles under his eyes. The Jackson Parr that died the night before barely resembled himself.
Something had been terribly wrong.
“That him?” S
al asked with a head nod toward the hologram, though Aida barely had the voice to respond. Her husband and mentor had met several times, but like most Scholars, Sal cared little for personal relationships.
It was something she had shared with Dr. Parr, an understanding of the big picture, that they were all connected. It was something she lost when he died suddenly with no apparent cause of death.
The creepy holographic projection paced the stage until she could look no longer, could sit next to her blind husband no longer. Aida darted from her chair and ran from the room.
SILAS
CPI-AO-301, NEW YORK
AUGUST 7, 2232
Silas stared at the documents in his hands, disbelief saturating the room. How many favors had he asked, how many strings had he pulled, desperate for any chance of making this happen?
And now he had the papers in his hand. Actual, physical paper.
He didn’t know what to do.
If he signed them, if he made this happen, it could be his only chance to soften his consuming regret. But so many things could go wrong.
Or he could burn them. It would be as if he’d never seen them. He would bear none of the responsibility.
Silas was stuck, wedged between regret and guilt. There was no easy choice.
“The digital autopsy scans are back from LRF.”
Silas looked up as his assistant appeared in the doorway. “What’s the name on this one?” He sat up, deftly maneuvering his tablet to pull up the report from the files, careful not to wrinkle the documents with the weight of the device.
“Uh, Dr. Jackson Parr. Planetary Systems,” Nick said with a glance at his own screen.
How could Abby let this happen?
“I’ll take a look and send it to Quincy. Thanks.” Silas waited for Nick to leave, his eyes scanning the hovering report. How he would always hate getting them, each one bringing them no closer to finding the bugs. Each one a life lost in his failure.
Nick didn’t leave. Instead, he said, “A possible recruit just came online in the northwest sector. I’ve made the arrangements. Should be there by 1200. That all right?” Nick asked when Silas sat distracted, eyes distant.
“Of course.” Silas faked his usual off-handed manner. “We’ll need to find at least two more, if not three. Good work.” He meant it.
As much as Silas didn’t care for Masry’s choice, he was grateful yet again to have an assistant. He wasn’t in the mood to recruit children into this field anymore. That was Nick’s job now.
“Thanks. I’ll send you my debrief this afternoon.”
“Hey, make sure you’re nice to them, okay? Remember they’ve had a rough day already. You know, be friendly.” Silas wouldn’t stand for Nick scaring off another recruit. They were so hard to come by as it was.
“Always,” Nick replied with confidence, but Silas knew better than to believe him. Nick still had a lot of learning to do.
By the time Silas thought to respond, Nick was gone. The documents still in his hand, he made no progress. He was torn.
There was only one person he could talk to, one person who would understand what was at stake.
Silas stowed the papers in his antique leather folder and set them in the locked drawer of his desk. Even with Nick out of sector for the day, he wouldn’t risk exposing this particular secret.
In the corridors of CPI, his little world, Silas put on an air of nonchalance he hardly felt. It wouldn’t do to worry them. He had to keep up the façade of control, even if it was a lie.
That was his burden.
“Knox put some shrimp ceviche in the galley.” Osip smiled as he passed. “White chocolate wasabi sauce, too.”
“Sounds fantastic,” he admitted. “I’ll be over shortly. Save some for me, would you?” It was hard to be sour with Osip around.
But Silas had other business.
“Hey, can you bring me another bottle?” he called back to Osip. He had a feeling he’d be needing it after this.
“Sure thing, Dr. A. I’ll put it in your office.”
With his spirits mildly lifted, Silas continued to the last door. A quiet knock on the wooden door was answered with, “Come in, Silas,” as always.
The arched door swung open into the dim lamplight, illuminating the space that was home in so many ways. There were lush carpets, the patterned chaise lounge, the French provincial tea table, a polished cedar bed set tucked into the corner adorned with crimson floral bedding.
“What’s the matter?” she asked before he could get a foot into her room.
The sight of her always warmed his heart, as if nothing was wrong in the world. She sat on her faded green chair, her gnarled hands busy at work on some puzzle.
“I got the paperwork.”
Her thin grey curls bounced as she reached to place the device on the tea table.
“You should sign them.” Her voice was crisp despite her age. Ramona wasn’t one to mince words.
“What if something happens? There’s considerable risk.” Silas was grateful she couldn’t see his features, that time had stolen enough of her vision that she couldn’t see his pain. “I’d be held responsible—”
“That’s not what you’re afraid of.”
“No.” He wondered how she knew, how she always knew.
“Sign them.”
“Would you be upset if I didn’t? Would you hate me for it?”
“No, child. You would hate yourself.” Quieter, softer, she said, “Sign them. It’s the only chance either of you have.”
Silas felt the truth of it sink into his bones. The cloud of uneasiness dissipated. A fire fueled inside him.
“I will. Thank you, Ramona.”
He stepped across the Iranian rug and leaned in to kiss her forehead.
“You’re cold,” he said when he felt the cool of her skin. Without waiting for her response, he grabbed the hand-crocheted afghan from the corner of her bed and draped it across her lap.
“See, that’s better, isn’t it?” He didn’t know if she meant the papers or the blanket.
“You’re feeling all right? No pain today?”
Ramona smiled. Her vacant eyes searched him out in her permanent dark. “No, child. Not a bit.”
He knew she lied, but wouldn’t press her. If she didn’t want to tell him, he wouldn’t ask. She wasn’t one to be pressed.
Silas returned to his office and poured a drink from the bottle that had appeared on his desk. He unlocked the drawer, retrieved the folder, and signed the documents.
With the warmth of scotch in his belly and some small measure of peace in his heart, Silas walked to the galley to sit with his recruits and eat shrimp ceviche.
MICHAEL
LRF-AQ
AUGUST 7, 2232
And Dr. Parr makes seven.
Seven deaths in two years. Of the 1,292 Scholars in the LRF, in addition to the 349 Craftsmen as support staff, seven deaths should have been a victory. But Michael Filmore knew better.
A Scholar himself, Michael well understood the resilience of his class. Individuals genetically engineered for health, intelligence, and longevity should have no reason to succumb to death. All had died young, before forty-five, with no results from the digital autopsy to explain it.
In fact, the files were sent back to Earth for complete analysis.
But as far as he knew, there was no cause. No reason.
There were no common factors. No trends. The seven had all worked in different departments, followed different schedules.
There was no connection between them.
He had the sinking feeling something else was going on in the LRF.
Michael’s expert hand pulled the tie-knot loose, slid it through his collar and tossed it haphazardly on the large bed at the center of his room, the largest personal quarters in the LRF. On this side, the most luxurious bed in the facility, two nightstands, a wide closet to hold his extensive suit collection, and a bathroom bigger than some of the apartments.
On the
office side, his faux-wood desk occupied the central space, complete with a pair of cushioned chairs. His assistant’s desk sat in the corner.
He unfastened the top few buttons of his crisp white shirt that so well contrasted the deep chocolate color of his skin, one of the finest traits on the market. His parents had been both fortunate in their genetic combinations and wealthy enough to afford the best geneticist.
He knew every time someone met him, they regarded him with great esteem. Because of his skin, they assumed he had numerous rare traits—and he did. He had blonde, kinky curly hair that, along with his skin tone, was one of the rarest combinations. Even the hairs of his beard were blonde, though he always kept it shaved.
His entire life he had been under great pressure to succeed. There had never been another option.
And now, here at the LRF, second only to the Vicereine, he was failing.
“There’s nothing you could have done.” Abigail set the coffee tray on the corner of the bed. She fetched the tie and straightened it on her way to place it in his closet. Sleek blonde hair complemented her warm brown eyes. A black dress accentuated her hips and waist while oozing the professional calm that had earned her the prestigious position as assistant to the Moon Director.
“Doesn’t feel that way.” Michael picked up the mug and took a sip.
Heavy on the sugar, light on the cream. Perfect.
“I took the liberty of cancelling your bimonthly meeting with Planetary Systems,” she called from the closet.
“Thank you,” he replied, relieved to be spared contact with Dr. Parr’s associates so soon after his death. Despite what Abigail believed, he did feel responsible.
“Don’t flatter yourself. It wasn’t for you.” Abigail emerged to fetch the tablet from his desk and drop in into his hand. “You have plenty of supply orders to get caught up on. Today’s the deadline for the next shipment.”
Michael groaned. Supply orders were about as interesting as the polyethylene walls of the LRF.
But they were a necessary component of his position, along with personnel selection, housing arrangements, and crisis management. He oversaw the multi-trillion vale budget and reported their immense spending to the Vicereine. At the end of the day, Michael was responsible for all the lives within the LRF. If anything happened, he would be to blame.