Ben Bova - Moonwar

Got to hand it to the kid, the mercenary thought. He faked them out and got them to turn tail. Peacekeeper troops ought to be tougher than that; letting the threat of nanobugs panic them.

He lifted his feet off the floor and wormed off his softboots, then swung his legs onto the bunk. Get some rest, he told himself. The next few days are going to be tough.

He considered his options. There was no way out of it, Doug Stavenger was going to die. The only questions were when and how. Can I do it without getting caught? Maybe make it look like an accident. Or will it be more effective if they all know that he’s been assassinated?

Even if they catch me at it, about all they’ll do is ship me back Earthside. Or will they? That Jinny Anson’s a pretty feisty broad. Would she have guts enough to execute me? Yeah, maybe so, if she’s pissed enough at my killing Stavenger.

Maybe I ought to get her first, he thought. But then he shook his head. No way. Knock off Stavenger first. He’s the key, especially with his mother back Earthside. Knock him off, and then afterward get Anson and anybody else you can reach.

So they kill me, he told himself. I’ve been running toward death all my life. I’ll take a lot of them with me.

It was hot, unbearably hot. Georges Faure hated to wear black, but for this occasion it was necessary. The steaming tropical heal was boiling the vast crowd standing in the sunshine like patient cattle, yet inside his suit of mourning Faure felt comfortable, almost cool. He wore an astronaut’s undergarment, threaded with plastic capillaries that circulated cooling water over his body.

As he sat on the dais listening to the interminable eulogies, Faure’s only worry was that perspiration was beginning to gather on his forehead. The Sri Lankan government had put up an awning of colorful silk to shade the VIPs from the blazing sun, of course, yet even with the cooling undergarment the broiling heat was making his unprotected head perspire.

As surreptitiously as possible, he mopped his sweating brow, hoping he would not look like a sodden mess when he got up to speak.

He kept his face an impassive mask, although he could feel rivulets of sweat running down his cheeks. It will appear ridiculous if I drip perspiration from my nose while I am speaking, he told himself. Again he pulled out his capacious handkerchief and wiped his face.

At last he heard the Sri Lankan prime minister say, “I present to you the secretary-general of the United Nations, Monsieur Georges Faure.”

As he walked slowly to the teak podium, carefully hiding his limp as much as possible, Faure realized that it was the rebels at Moonbase who had inflicted this indignity on him. If not for them, he would be comfortably ensconced in his air-conditioned office in New York instead of attending the funeral services of an obscure Peacekeeper captain who was so inept that he killed himself with his own grenade.

He focused his mind on the hateful Moonbase renegades even as his eyes looked out on a sea of dark, solemn-eyed faces. The Sri Lankan government had made a media extravaganza of Captain Munasinghe’s funeral. After decades of civil war, they desperately needed a hero, a martyr, whom every citizen could admire. Jagath Munasinghe, at best a mediocre officer in life, was being built into a international hero in death.

Thousands of solemn faces stared up at Faure. He kept his own face blank, suppressing the smile that wanted to break out at the thought of having the world’s media focused on him. By his express order, this funeral service was being beamed to Moonbase, too.

Leaning on the teak podium, he began, “The cause of peace has seen many heroes, many men and women who have given their lives. Captain Jagath Munasinghe has joined their illustrious ranks…”

Before long, Faure was virtually snarling, “And why has this brilliant young officer met such an untimely death? Because a handful of renegades at Moonbase refuse to accept international law. Scientists and corporation billionaires want to live beyond the law in their secret base on the Moon. Captain Munasinghe was killed trying to enforce the law which they resist. They killed him,”

Doug watched Faure’s performance from the bunk in his quarters, where his digital clock read 6:28 a.m. Even before Faure had completed his diatribe, Doug pressed the keypad at his bedside that activated the phone.

He started to ask for Jinny Anson, but heard himself say instead, “Edith Elgin, please.”

He muted Faure’s image on the smart wall. Edith’s voice came through, but no picture.

“This is Edith Elgin,” she said, as clearly as if she were signing off on a news report. At least I didn’t wake her up, Doug thought.

“Doug Stavenger,” said Doug. “Are you watching the funeral services?”

“Sure am. Faure’s working himself to a stroke, looks like.”

“He’s blaming us for that Peacekeeper’s death.”

“What’d you expect? Munasinghe’s handed him a great public relations club and Faure’s going to beat you with it as hard as he can.”

Feeling frustrated that he couldn’t see her, Doug asked, “Well, what can we do about it?”

Edith immediately replied, “I’ve got the whole thing on a pair of chips.”

“What?”

“I’ve checked both my cameras. They show what really happened.”

Doug’s surge of hope dampened quickly. “But the media have been ignoring us. Would they play your chips?”

Edith laughed. “Does a chimp eat bananas?”

“No, really,” he said,’the media all seem to be on Faure’s side.”

Her voice grew more serious. “I’ll take care of that .”

“Can you?”

“If I can’t, nobody can.”

Despite himself, Doug had to smile at her self-confidence. Or was it just plain ego?

“Are you really a billionaire?” Edith asked.

“Me?”

“Faure said you’re a billionaire. Is that true?”

With a puzzled blink, Doug replied, “I don’t know. Maybe. I guess my mother is, certainly.”

“Say, have you heard anything from her? Your mother, I mean?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t that worry you?”

Doug leaned back against his pillows. Suddenly he felt very tired of it all. “You know,” he said to Edith, “I haven’t even had the time to worry about her. But now that you mention it, yeah, I had thought she would’ve called by now.”

For several heartbeats Edith did not reply. Then she said, her voice low, “I’m sorry I brought it up, Doug. You’ve got enough on your shoulders without me adding to it.”

He felt himself smiling at her. “That’s okay. I guess if you hang out with reporters you’ve got to expect troubles.”

She laughed. “That’s it. Blame the media.”

Edith was surprised at how difficult it was to make contact with her boss at Global News in Atlanta. She had beamed the contents of her camera chips to headquarters, then spent the whole day trying to get through to the programming department to make certain they had received it okay.

Now it was past midnight, and still the smart wall display read: YOUR CALL HAS NOT BEEN ACCEPTED.

“Shee-it,” she muttered in her childhood Texas accent, sitting tensely in the spindly desk chair of the one-room apartment the Moonbase people had given her.

Doug had told her that the commsats were blacked out, but Global should be able to take a message directed straight at their rooftop antennas. Yet her call did not go through.