Lunar Justice

by Charles L. Harness

Genres: Science Fiction; Hard Science Fiction; Space Opera

Synopsis

The powerful Peace Eternal corporation has a solution to Earth's staggering overpopulation problem: a government-supported program of clean, efficient mass murder. Billionaire philanthropist Michael Dore has a better way - Lamplighter, a remarkable process that will enable safe colonization of Jupiter's moons. But Dore has been set up to be tried for treason before a kangaroo lunar court. And Quentin Thomas, a patent lawyer with astonishing telekinetic abilities, is to handle the defense. Unfortunately, the Moon's corrupt Lord Chancellor and his bought jury have already sentenced the accused and his attorney to death - unless Jupiter catches fire...within twenty-four hours.

Release date: August 29, 2013

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 180

Sample

Ah, Moon of my Delight

Who know’ st no wane.

       —The Rubáiyeát of Omar Khayyám

He was sitting in the recreation room with Nadys and half a dozen of her companion guests, and they were chatting idly as they watched the morning news on the holo. It was that crazy Lamplighter Project again. Quentin Thomas didn’t give it his full attention. He was studying his beloved from the corner of his eye. She had now been here at the resort a full week, and it still didn’t make any sense to him. She had tried to explain at the beginning of the retreat: “Listen to me, darling. With a man, marriage is a simple thing, saying some words, signing some papers, off to work in the morning, home at night, eating, sleeping, sex, in one head and out the other. With a woman, though, it’s a serious business. Marriage can really mess up a woman’s mind. It’s not a one-night stand. It’s not a weekend at a resort. It’s not a relationship. Quentin, sweetheart, I’ve got to think it through. I need peace and quiet. I need a week here at Patuxent Haven. Maybe two weeks.”

So he had sighed, and he had tried to look at it from her viewpoint. He could see that to live with him and to give up certain freedoms, to rearrange her entire life, would require some deep and time-consuming soul-searching. Well, he could wait. He compared it to the task of netting a beautiful and very wary butterfly. It was a question of patience, persistence, never losing sight of the quarry, never making any sudden moves. Eventually he was going to persuade this remarkable girl to marry him. It was just a question of time.

“Look!” she commanded.

Back to the holo. The announcer, a diminutive ten-inch three-D figure, was demonstrating something with models on a table. From time to time the cameras zoomed in on a particular object to make a point. “This,” said the announcer, “is a model of the planet Jupiter. Note the light and dark bands. Here’s the GRS—the Great Red Spot, a cloud storm that’s been whirling for thousands, maybe millions of years. Over the last ten years the Lamplighters have dumped millions of tons of nuclear waste into the GRS. They claim there’s now enough waste at the planet core to ignite Jupiter—turn it into a small second sun. And that would warm up its moons and make them habitable. However—”

Cut to file tape. Announcer’s voiceover: “Michael Dore—the driving force behind the Lamplighters.” A tall gray-haired man held a model of something in his hand, a sort of metallic capsule. Quentin Thomas caught some explanation. “This is the fuse that will start the nuclear reaction at Jupiter’s core. We shoot it into the GRS. It falls through thousands of kilometers of hydrogen and helium gases, then through a shell of liquid helium, and finally it arrives at the solid core, and there it searches out our pile of waste. And then—bang. The fuse blows, the waste blows, the planet starts fusing hydrogen, and Jupiter becomes a titanic hydrogen fusion bomb …” The voice faded. The announcer again: “That was two months ago. What went wrong? Nobody knows. But Mr. Dore was not daunted by failure. He promised to try again. His next attempt was supposed to involve something ultra-secret. The secret didn’t stay secret very long. The story that reached us was that Mr. Dore hired a psi to ignite the nuclear pile. He was supposed to set it off by brain waves. We traced the leak back to the psi himself, a Professor Siva. Dr. Siva was supposed to increase his power with the aid of a little black box—a psi-enhancer invented by Mr. Dore. However, the professor was never given a chance to show what he could do, because he vanished, along with the psi-enhancer, soon after the story broke. So where does this leave the great Lamplighter Project? Nobody knows for sure. We have not been able to reach Mr. Dore. In fact, he too seems to have vanished. Is he in trouble? We think so. Five years ago he promised that he would ignite Jupiter by five o’clock July 27 of this year—and that’s next week. Meanwhile, he has accepted billions from a number of Federation governments. Is Michael Dore the biggest fraud of the century, or is he just an airy-brained philanthropist whose pet charity went haywire?”

There was more, but Thomas was rising from his chair. He smiled at Nadys. “I have to be going.”

“A client?”

He looked casually about the big room. “Yeah, Penal Systems.”

For the past minute or two he had felt that something here was slightly awry. He sensed that the blue drapes lining the picture window were actually closed-circuit pickups. He was being recorded. Interesting, but not surprising. Peace Eternal boasted tight security for the guests of its resorts. Fair enough. Out of curiosity he reached out with his mind and traced the circuitry back into a central data bank. There were a couple of coded traps, which he eluded easily. And so into Nadys’s file dossier. It had complete information about her. Age, marital status, how much she made as an examiner in the Patent Office. Relatives, friends, visitors. Very thorough. (Just a bit too thorough?) And there was a short paragraph on him, with a couple of kine-shots. Quentin Thomas, fiancé (?) … age … physical description … eyes, chestnut hazel … hair, brown … height, five-nine … weight, one hundred fifty … occupation, lawyer …

Like Narcissus, he watched the data’s mirroring flow. He resisted a temptation to straighten his tie.

Bump! Something had just been added to Nadys’s data bank. Back up, Quentin. Ah … “T—July 27.” Hmm. That was early next week, the day before she was scheduled to leave. And just exactly what did “T” mean? None of his business, really.

He looked around at the group and noted a couple of empty chairs. “You say goodbye to Mrs. Casio for me.”

“Oh dear. meant to mention … she passed away yesterday. Very strange. She seemed in good health, excellent spirits. A cardiac, they said.”

“Oh.” He didn’t know what to say. He hesitated. “Well, tell Mr. McCormack hello.”

She shook her head. “Him, too.” She shrugged. “Stroke. Very sudden. Surprised us all. He was over eighty, though.”

He essayed a smile. “Just don’t let it happen to you.” (“T”—?)

She laughed her miniature chirping laugh. “Don’t be silly.”

They embraced and kissed, almost shyly. The odor of flowers rose up from her and engulfed him. A couple of the older women watched them hungrily. (Ah, Nadys, he thought, just you wait.) He ran his fingers through her long black hair, then caressed her scalp with his fingertips. Strange hair. Truly black, yet it had hints of gold, especially when the light was just right. She blamed that on her maternal grandfather, a redheaded Irishman. Gorgeous, he mused, and he wondered if it was Mendelian and whether their children would inherit it or any of her beauty. Of course they would. But would they inherit her natural perfume? No, that wasn’t Mendelian. He would not share that with their children. He took a deep breath. That was for him alone. Not even Nadys could detect it; she was not aware of her own perfume.

She was talking to him. “Practice,” she whispered. “Practice your patent claims. Rhythm! Don’t forget.”

It took him a moment to get back to earth. “Patent claims … rhythm … practice … no, I won’t forget.” Rhythm. The new buzzword in the Patent Office.

He winked across Nadys’s head at one of the more interested lady guests. She winked back, unabashed, and didn’t turn away. She had been there, he thought.

He considered Nadys’s final instructions. Practice claim rhythm. (A truth drug characterized … no, no. The meter was non-homogeneous. No matter, he’d work on it back in Arlington. “I’ll practice,” he promised.

She pushed him away. “Enough. Go.”

As he was leaving he caught the closing words of the holo commercial. “… brought to you by Peace Eternal, where you can rest in carefree dignity …”

He frowned. T—July 27. They were taking good care of her here. So why should he suddenly feel uneasy? Should he stop by the front desk and ask the receptionist what “T—July 27” meant? Not sure that would be a good idea. How could he explain where he had seen the entry? Tell them he was a psi? That would hardly do. Anyhow, he had to move along. He had a luncheon date with a valuable client.

He walked to his car in a bemused reverie. Curious, he thought, she was here, trying to figure out how it would be, living with him, for better or worse, all that stuff, day after day, month after month, year after year. With her, it wasn’t just a question of sharing his bed. She’d be giving up small treasured liberties that he would probably never be able to name. For her, everything would change. Ever since college she had lived her own life, paid her own way, dealt with challenges and obstacles all by herself, and had thereby achieved a remarkable independence of mind and spirit. Apparently she felt that all of this would be at risk.

How about the other side of the coin? How about him? He did not have any problems at all in visualizing what their married life would be like. He knew it would be good. He had absolutely no doubts about that. He loved to be with her, he loved just to have her within visible, oral, audible, tactile range. He loved to talk to her, discuss things with her. She was a good listener. They thought the same things were funny, and they loved to laugh together. When she wasn’t around, he missed her. Sometimes he actually ached for want of her.

He could not list all his feelings for her. The list would be endless, and would finally trail off into mystery.

But he could sum it up in four little words, which he now whispered: “Nadys, I love you.”

He was astonished to find that he was standing beside his car. Enough! Back into the world! He shook his head and blinked vigorously. He had to start thinking about his patent cases.

As he drove he listened to the continuing newscast. Michael Dore was reported to be in hiding on the moon. Michael Dore was in imminent danger of arrest and trial. Mediamen by the dozen were overbidding for space on the shuttle. Moving in for the kill. Some already in Lunaplex, on hot tips developed days ago. (Thomas yawned. Who cares?) Also, the police had found Dr. Siva, the Lamplighters’ psi. Dr. Siva was in a private mental institution. (Quentin Thomas started paying close attention.) The psychic was reported to be totally catatonic. He had even lost his knee-jerk and pupillary reflexes. Nobody at the sanatorium would talk, but a medical consultant for the station opined that Dr. Siva’s mind had been destroyed by massive psychic stress—possibly by exposure to the Lamplighters’ psi-enhancer—if indeed there were any such machine.

Thomas frowned. All this stuff about psi and its dangers was making him nervous. But why should it? None of his affair.

As he was turning into Penal Systems’ parking lot, he caught a flash from a distant hill. A sun reflection. A window glass? No, too small. A camera lens, more likely. Was there an automatic camera out there focused on all the comings and goings to Penal Systems? Nonsense. This was a combination of paranoia and a low blood sugar level brought on by a skimpy breakfast. He hoped that lunch would not be long delayed.

Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.

       —Mark Twain

Always in the past when Penal Systems Inc. wanted to consult Quentin Thomas about an invention, they had sent someone to talk to him in his little office at Laurence, Gottlieb, in Arlington, Virginia. This time, though, they had asked him to talk to them at their place in nearby Maryland. “Can you make it about one o’clock?” the receptionist had asked. “Mr. Wright would like to have lunch with you.”

That was fine with him. It was always a good idea to know as much about a client as possible, not to mention that it gave him a chance to visit Nadys. And so he had welcomed the fast drive into the heart of the Washington-Baltimore bedroom communities, capped by the winding tree-lined roads of the industrial park in Oldcolumbia.

And now here he was in the office of the administrator, the man who authorized patent work and who paid the bills: J. Henry Wright.

Wright studied him, and he studied Wright. The administrator seemed deliberately nondescript. His face was pale, wrinkled; he was of average height. In strange contrast to a pink puffy neck, his lips were thin, bloodless. When the two men shook hands Thomas noted the palm was smooth and soft, but dry.

Wright indicated the empty chair; they both sat down. So far neither had said a word. It was as though time had ceased for the older man.

Thomas shrugged mentally and looked around the office. The room was conventionally arranged. Elegant carpet, mahogany furniture, genuine oils on the walls. Flowers in a corner planter. Twin mirror panels behind Wright’s desk. And one of those mirrors—

Fascinating …

Very delicately he let the psychic tentacles of his mind probe beyond the mirror. Yes, something was there; a closed-circuit camera. He quickly traced the electronics. He was being broadcast to a distant receiver. A very, very distant receiver. How far? He couldn’t quite make it out. The … moon?

Did Wright know? Of course Wright knew. His host was watching him carefully. Did Wright know that he, Quentin Thomas, could see through that mirror, and beyond? Quite possibly.

And now, finally, Wright spoke. He said, “Do you have a demon?” The intonation was smooth, modulated. The administrator might have been asking the lawyer whether he had had a nice drive out, or how the weather was back in Virginia.

A demon? thought Thomas. Do I have a demon?

What’s going on here?

What had started as a routine client contact was turning into a very serious problem. Perhaps even a deadly problem. Should he demand an explanation? Well, not right away. That could make things even worse.

Demon?

In his mind he listened to the question again.

Ah! There. Not demon. Daemon. The meanings were entirely different. Daemons were creatures in Greek mythology ranking somewhere between gods and men. Wright was asking him, Do you have a godlike inner spirit? Do you have a talent beyond the range of common human experience? Well, maybe.

He remembered the furor when the Georgetown medics had installed his standard cranial microchips and ear sockets. All law students had to get the core chip (Nine Thousand Rules and Cases—NTRC, or Enturc, as it was called.) The surgery was outpatient, harmless, painless. Ordinarily it was about as exciting as getting a haircut.

The medics had given him his standard installations, but they had made a big fuss about it. The program supervisor called in two outside cerebralists, and they had let him look and listen as they talked about him. The four of them had looked at the plates together.

Supervisor: Here we’re in the auditory/speech area. Those fuzzy things that look like sea urchins are neurons. The hairs are dendrites, and they are vibrating.

First outsider: That’s quite impossible. Dendrites don’t move. They make contact via neurotransmitters. Does he dispense with chemical neurotransmitters?

Supervisor: Not at all! He’s got all the standards: adrenaline, noradrenaline, dopamine, serotonin, enkaphalin, dynorphin, P, GABA, glutamic acid, plus at least half a dozen new ones. To further complicate the picture, he has three new brain waves, all with frequencies faster than the traditional beta, which gallops along at better than fourteen cycles per second.

(He remembered not liking standing there while they talked about him as though he were some rare, abnormal medical curiosity. So he had broken in, a bit truculently.)

Thomas: What’s that? (Pointing.)

Second outsider: (Answering, but in a way that ignored the questioner.) That’s the corpus callosum. Ordinarily it consists of some two hundred million fibers connecting . . .