Ben Bova - Moonwar

With it came gradually building pressure from the United Nations to force Kiribati to sign the nanotech treaty. Knowing that it would mean the death of Moonbase, Bonai resisted as long as she could, looking to Masterson and the other international corporations for help. They gave none. She was especially surprised, even hurt, that Rashid stayed aloof from the struggle with the U.N. There were raging arguments in the Masterson Corporation board of directors. Joanna Brudnoy fought for Moonbase’s survival. But Rashid insisted that the nanotech treaty was unavoidable; sooner or later they would have to obey it.

Now Moonbase had defied Faure and the Peacekeepers. They had declared their independence, a move that Bonai supported with all her heart.

Is it because of Doug that I want Moonbase to win? she asked herself. She had never seen Douglas Stavenger in the flesh; they had never been closer than the Moon’s distance since they’d first met. Their only contact had been through videophones or virtual reality links. Yet she felt that Doug was important to her; she could fall in love with him some day.

She sat at a table near the railing that edged the roof and looked out at the sparkling ocean and the surf breaking on the reef beyond the island’s white sand beach. One of the hotel’s small army of assistant managers brought a phone to her and placed it softly on the table.

“Mr Stavenger is calling from Moonbase,” the young man said.

Bonai thanked him and activated the phone with the touch of a manicured finger. Doug’s earnest, handsome face filled the tiny screen as she worked the receiver plug into her right ear.

“Tamara, did you look at the video we beamed down to you a couple of hours ago?” Doug asked immediately.

“Yes. The Peacekeeper officer killed himself, didn’t he?”

She glanced out at the ocean again as she waited for his response, thinking that he never called except on business. We have no personal relationship, she told herself. It’s never even entered his mind.

“Global News Network is having difficulty deciding whether they want to air it not,” Doug said.

“I understand that they are leaning over backwards to support Faure,” Bonai replied, “although I don’t see what good it will do them.”

A boy was spearfishing for octopus out in the shallows by the reef, she saw. He lunged and pulled a pulpy tangle of tentacles out of the water on the end of his spear. It writhed helplessly, no larger than his hand. He bit its head and the writhing immediately stopped. She wished she could be out there too, having fun. With Doug.

“We’re talking to the head of the network and trying to make a case for fairness, balanced reporting and all that,” Doug said. Without waiting for her to reply, he added, In the meantime, it occurred to me that Kiribati might broadcast the video in your hotels—maybe even bounce it off your commsats so the rest of the Pacific nations can see it.”

She frowned slightly. “But isn’t the video the property of Global News? Wouldn’t our airing it cause copyright problems? To say nothing of the U.N.’s reaction.”

This time she watched Doug’s face as she waited. He looked so earnest, so determined. “Yes, it probably would cause a flap. But we’ve got to show the world what really happened here!”

“Ah,” she said, understanding.

Doug was continuing, “We need air time, Tamara! We need to tell the world that we’ve declared independence and we’re serious about it and we didn’t kill that Peacekeeper captain. Especially in the United States, we need to get our side of the story to the people.”

“And this will force the issue. I see.”

For nearly three seconds she waited. Then Doug asked, “Will you do it for us, Tamara? Will you help us?”

“On one condition,” she replied.

She enjoyed watching his face turn perplexed.

“One condition? What is it?”

“That after all this is over you come here to Tarawa and go fishing with me.”

He smiled at her once he heard her words. “You’ve got a deal!” Doug said fervently.

“This is intolerable!” Joanna was raging. “We’ve been kept in quarantine for three days now!”

The image of the U.N. flunkie on her phone screen seemed serenely unperturbed, as bland and inflexible as a wax dummy.

“I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Brudnoy,” he said in an infuriatingly soft voice, “but the quarantine is for your own safety. You have no idea how strongly public opinion feels about the killing of Captain Munasinghe. If you were allowed out without our protection, it could be quite dangerous for you.”

Joanna glanced up from the screen to her husband, stretched out on the couch across the room. Lev knows how to accept imprisonment, she thought. It must be in his Russian genes.

But to the image in the phone screen she said, “Now look. I’m perfectly capable of arranging my own security. I could have a small army of bodyguards here in Corsica in a few hours if you’d allow me to make a phone call back to my corporate headquarters in Savannah.”

“Aren’t you comfortable in your quarters?” the bureaucrat asked. “Our instructions were to see that you had the very best suite—”

“The best suite in your jail!” Joanna spat.

“Really, Mrs Brudnoy…”

“Your damned medical tests have shown we’re not infested with nanobugs. I don’t care what your so-called security risks are. I want to get out of here!”

“I’m afraid—” The bureaucrat’s vapid expression suddenly changed. He blinked several times and a small knot of anxiety appeared between his brows. “One moment, please.”

The phone screen went blank.

Joanna wanted to scream. She looked over at her husband. “Lev, how can you just lie there?”

“I am planning our escape,” he said, quite seriously. “All we need is a tunneling machine.”

Before Joanna could reply the screen chimed and Georges Faure’s face appeared, scowling like a miniature thundercloud.

The newscast from Kiribati came through while Faure was in his office discussing economic controls over international air traffic. He did not have the luxury, then, of demolishing the furniture or any other way of venting his fury.

He dismissed his underlings and watched the newscast alone, his anger and blood pressure rising with each second. There was Captain Munasinghe, screaming uselessly at his troops as they ingloriously ran away from Moonbase’s garage. There was Munasinghe, obviously in a fit of hysteria, fumbling with a grenade and charging through the wide-open airlock. And there was Munasinghe, killed by his own grenade.

Idiots! Faure fumed silently. Who allowed this to happen?

He banged a chubby fist on his phone console and demanded to be put through to Edan McGrath, owner of Global News. But even before the electronics could make the connection he cancelled the call.

It will do no good, Faure told himself. The cat has escaped the sack. Whether or not McGrath has gone back on his promise to me no longer matters. Neither of us can put the cat back inside now.

Yet he made a mental note to work more closely with the New Morality zealots in Washington who wanted to put more limits on the news media.

Breathing deeply in a vain attempt to calm himself, Faure put through a call to Corsica, instead of Atlanta.

By the time Joanna Brudnoy’s surprised face appeared on his desktop phone screen, Faure had almost regained his self-composure.

“Madame Brudnoy,” he said as pleasantly as he could manage.

“Mr Faure,” she snapped back. Obviously she was not happy at being detained in Corsica.

“It has come to my attention that you wish to return to your home,” Faure said.