Old Wounds

Old Wounds

  by

  Michael D. Britton

  * * * *

  Copyright 2012 by Michael D. Britton / Intelligent Life Books

  Jack Chang slammed the cold steel communications panel with a slender but strong fist. The crisp image on the holoscreen shimmered a little – a woman, late forties, red blouse, short black hair, blinked hard and wiped away a tear.

  “Oh, President Stevens,” Jack growled, rolling his wheelchair forward a couple of inches, “don’t tell me you’re crying over us? Am I supposed to feel your pain? As you and your vaunted cabinet condemn twelve hundred of us to death, simply because you can’t balance a budget?”

  “That’s not fair, Dr. Chang. You know that’s not fair.”

  Jack stared out the polyvex windows of the Lunar Colony Command Center, watching his people moving about the habitat dome below.

  Going about their daily routine, they had no idea it had come to this.

  Jack himself had been on the moon for twelve years now, ever since he’d left the Marines – and had been the colony’s leader for the past six years. Unfortunately, that leadership had entailed intense political wrangling and financial finesse, rather than the groundbreaking scientific duties he’d hoped for.

  And this latest debacle was absolutely unacceptable.

  He looked hard at the President, who sat safely in her office in Washington. “The fission power cells can keep us warm and run the food fabricator and hydro-synthesizer,” said Jack, his angular jaw clenched. “But they can only sustain us for as long as we have raw matter cubes. Once that resource is gone, we’ll be helpless. And I remind you we only have enough supply for another thirty days. If you don’t send more cubes, we’ll all be dead six weeks from now. Is that fair?”

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I’ve done all I can. This was a very hard decision for all of us. But we really have no choice - we simply don’t have the funds to send up another supply rocket. It’s the fuel. The Saudis have tied our hands. The energy crisis has reached a tipping point. Everything is rationed to the extreme. Everyone down here is walking and riding bikes – we can’t even run the trains or the planes. Rocket-grade fuel is more valuable than diamonds, and harder to come by.” She looked down at her hands. “And Dr. Chang – you knew the risks.”

  That was one step too far. He didn’t even bother to preface his response with a “with all due respect.”

  “Risks! Incompetent governance back home was not one of those risks, Madame President. Each of us on Project New Home understood the dangers of setting up a colony on the moon. We knew going into this that our bodies would suffer from the prolonged exposure to diminished gravity. We knew the rockets carrying us here could explode, and that the domes we live in could rupture. But if you suggest that we embarked on this endeavor with an understanding that we may all starve to death as a result of funding issues . . . ”

  His rant trailed off, his heavy breathing gently fogging the cold air in the room – the temperature kept low to conserve energy. If Pamela were here, she’d tell Jack she saw this all coming, and she’d yell at him for being so naïve as to trust the government. Of course, it was over between them – he hadn’t seen her in weeks – making the place feel even colder.

  President Stevens appeared to be fuming, but her anger seemed not to be directed at Jack or his disrespectful tone of voice – but more a frustration with her own impotent government.

  She opened her mouth to speak, and a blast rocked the dome, causing the holoscreen to black out. Jack looked around the room. Instrumentation went haywire, registering the explosion and delivering data reports on the damage. Outside the window, colonists scattered, running to and fro to address the incident at hand. Beyond them, Jack saw a huge plume of green flames rise up behind one of the primary fission units.

  When the communication holoscreen came back on a few moments later, the president had a shocked expression.

  “I’ve just received report of an explosion,” she said. “What’s going on up there? Are you all right?”

  “Thanks for the concern,” Jack said with more than a tinge of sarcasm as he split his attention between the president and his console, where he was trying to ascertain the cause of the blast. “We have it under contr– ”

  Another blast – only this one sent the president flying out of her chair.

  Had someone bombed the White House?

  Before Jack could wrap his head around it, the communication feed turned to static for a second, then a familiar face appeared on the holoscreen.

  “Jack. President Stevens. I believe I’ve managed to get your attention.”

  The man on the holoscreen, who was apparently broadcasting to both the White House and the LCCC, had a shaved-bald head and a thick but short-trimmed black beard covering his face, accenting his blue, piercing eyes. He spoke with a slight Scottish accent.

  “What do you want, Turner?” Jack snarled at his former Marine buddy.

  Marcus Turner had once been Jack’s right-hand man, reporting directly to him during Gulf War VI. Together, they’d survived a desert massacre of their troop, and managed to save a small town from extinction by holding off the enemy all by themselves.

  It was in that battle that Jack had taken a shell that shattered his L4 and L5 vertebrae. Turner dragged his commanding officer to shelter, and together they fought through the night, Turner running short sorties while Jack covered him from his immobile position. By morning, Turner’s left hand was blown off and he had several holes in his shoulder, and Jack had almost bled out through the wound in his back. But every one of the opposing force was dead.

  The two received medals and honorable discharges, and joined the Project New Home program – Jack as an agricultural terraforming specialist and Turner as demolition expert. Turner would sculpt the landscape; Jack would paint it with life.

  “I think you know what I want, Jack,” Turner said. “However, I think our illustrious leader may be in the dark. Why don’t you bring President Stevens up to speed on our little . . . disagreement?”

  Jack sighed heavily as the holoscreen split to reveal a very disheveled President Stevens on the right half. Her hair reached out in all directions like a violent mob, and patches of dirt or soot adorned her cheek and forehead. Her bottom lip was split down the middle. Two medics attempted to tend to the gash, but she waved them away, focusing on the screen.

  “What’s this about, Dr. Chang?”

  “One moment,” said Jack. He wheeled himself to a display across the room and checked the status of the colony. One dead, fourteen injured. ID tag locators indicated Turner was off-grid, along with twelve co-conspirators. Jack returned to the comm panel, seething. “In short, Mr. Turner is a murderer and an insurrectionist, Madame President.”

  “I prefer the term Freedom Rebel,” Turner interjected.

  Jack scowled and continued. “For the past three or four months, he’s been recruiting dissenters. It started long before that, though.”

  “Explain,” said Stevens.

  “We’ve been disagreeing on a number of tactical issues for the past year or so,” Jack said. “Nothing critical, nothing we couldn’t work out. But strategic issues forced a falling out when I confided in him that there were funding concerns and the possibility of a termination of the project. Things started to get a little ugly – he said he had no intention of returning to Earth. We haven’t spoken in weeks.”

  “Why have you not included any of this in your reports?”

  The truth was, Jack was loath to rat on his formerly loyal friend. He hoped there could still be a peaceful resolution without getting Washington involved.

  “It was an internal matter. You had more pressing concerns, such as decid
ing our fate.”

  “A fate that is entirely unacceptable,” Turner cut in.

  Jack couldn’t argue with that. He looked out the window again to see the colonists had suppressed the green fire. People moved with less urgency; the incident seemed under control.

  “Listen, both of you,” said Stevens, “The initial plan, once we recognized the financial dilemma, was to begin shuttling colonists back to Earth, forty at a time. Of course, that would require thirty round trips – prohibitively expensive. So, we funneled some cash into a research committee to determine alternatives. Meanwhile, we kept sending supplies of raw matter cubes. In the meantime, Congress made no decision, because your initiative was tacked on as a rider to a taxation bill that nobody wanted to vote on before the mid-term elections.”

  “Enough!” yelled Turner. “Politics! I don’t care about any of that – and neither does anybody else up here. Least of all, the children.”

  Again, Turner had a point. It was just his methods that Jack couldn’t stomach.

  “In case you didn’t notice,” Turner continued, “I am currently in a position to make demands. Those two bombs were just the beginning.”

  “All right,” said Stevens, “what are your demands?”

  “Simple. I want a three-year supply of raw matter cubes and full control of New Home. We’ll sever all ties with any and all Earth governments and conduct our own affairs henceforth.”

  President Stevens didn’t manage to suppress an incredulous scoffing noise. “You cannot be serious,” she said. “Even if we were to grant you autonomy – which is extremely unlikely - there is no possible way to send you a three year supply of raw matter cubes. As you are surely aware, we cannot even send you another six-month - ”

  “Silence!” Turner barked. “I think you’d be very surprised at what you can do . . . when you’re desperate enough.” He looked over his shoulder, muttering something to someone off-camera. He turned back to face the screen, his face a stone. “Call the Capitol, Madame President. I imagine they’ll be interested in speaking to you right about now.”

  The president’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. She turned to an aide and said “Get me the Capitol – I want to talk to Speaker Gresham.”

  Turner’s eyes remained a cold flame.

  Jack took measured breaths as the president placed a comm bud in her ear and started nodding gravely. Knowing Turner as he did, Jack could guess what was coming next.

  The president looked up in shock. “A time bomb, Mr. Turner? This is outrageous.”

  “Actually, it’s appropriate,” said Turner. “You’ve given us six weeks to live – I’m returning the favor and giving the government six hours to live. As you’ve no doubt been informed, the device has a handy countdown display, indicating how long you have to comply, and the chamber has been electronically locked down. Any attempt to extricate your congress-critters will result in instant detonation. You don’t want that.” Turner shrugged. “Or perhaps you do – I really don’t keep up with politics. In that case, however, I have a Plan B. Regardless, there’s nothing on earth you can do to stop me – I control it all from up here.”

  With that, Turner’s face disappeared, the connection terminated.

  The president and Jack stared at each other in silence for a few seconds. Stevens then spoke off-camera for about a minute - a murmured, argumentative tone to the garbled comments - then she turned back to address the screen and seemed to make a decision.

  “Jack, we need your help.”

  Jack slapped the arms of his wheelchair. “What do you expect me to do? Besides, this is your mess, Madame President. With all due respect.”

  “Jack,” Stevens’ voice softened, “no one else at New Home has your level of military experience. Tactical, strategic, small arms specialty. Yes, I know your resume. And you know Turner better than anyone.”

  “So I just roll into his stronghold, a one-man army, and take him down?” Jack rubbed at the bridge of his nose with tired fingers.

  “Of course not. Bring a small team – five or six of your best security men.”

  “Those guys are scientists – they just signed up for the security rotation because they didn’t have families and wanted to earn a few extra credits. They’ve never seen any action – we’ve never had much use for a security detail at New Home – their experience consists of staying up all night playing cards.”

  “Jack, you have only a few hours.”

  “Or what? Congress gets blown to bits? I’m of half a mind to care.”

  “You don’t know all the facts, Jack. The defense protocol has already been initiated. As soon as the threat was made, our orbital defense station launched a warhead. The missile takes five hours to reach New Home. If Turner has not been neutralized by then, the threat will be eliminated.”

  “The bomb is in Washington! Why target a peaceful colony?”

  “You heard Turner – he controls it all from there. If his remote detonation device is destroyed, he cannot harm us here.”

  “You hope.”

  “It’s all we’ve got.”

  Jack’s head hurt.

  “If I do this, I want certain assurances.”

  “You want a deal.”

  “Eighteen more months of raw matter cubes.”

  “You’re nearly as bad as your friend, Dr. Chang. Tell you what. We’ll find a way – somehow – to get you another year of raw matter cubes – but you must stop Turner, and get him to give up his accomplices here on earth. Someone set up the White House bomb – which killed two of my staffers - and set up the Capitol bomb. They must face justice.”

  “Fine.”

  Stevens nodded once. “Good luck, Ja– ”

  Jack stabbed his finger at the console, killing the transmission.