Чет Уильямсон - Resist - Tales from a Future Worth Fighting Against

“What happened to her?” I ask one night, whispering in the dark. All she says is “She went away,” and I don’t know if that means she got sick and died, or if she went away on the salvage team, or if she went away to Free Mind to ask for help and never came back, because we shot her. I don’t ask. I’m afraid to know.

So all I say is, “I miss my mom, too.”

CLETUS CULPEPPER DIDN’T think he would ever get used to gravity on the moon. But, as with the aftermath of all great catastrophes, he came to accept this new normal, to live and work as he always had, only occasionally pining with nostalgia for the days of hopping and bouncing across the cratered surface as if he were at the bottom of some training pool back on Earth. In truth, Cletus rarely even thought about it. It was only when he found himself waiting for the coffee maker to get around to finally spitting out a full mug that he watched each drip, remembering that he wasn’t on Earth. This isn’t right , he would think as each drop splashed down, before grunting, nodding, and muttering, “Oh yeah,” to himself.

Stranger still, for that brief moment, he was forced to remember that there was no Florida. Not anymore. He’d grown up there. Remembered vividly the topography. Could detail entire nights of his misspent youth, sucking down beers and making time with girls in places that were now thirty feet underwater. Sure, the scientists had raised their alarm, presented reams of data, even built computer models of the damage adding artificial gravity to Earth’s orbital companion would cause back home, but what was science anyway but guesses? Legislation against the move stalled and when a suit threw the switch there was no turning back.

You could walk on the moon.

Who needed Florida, anyway?

The door to Cletus’s office shushed open, the warm, fresh air from the next pod rushing in, sweeping out the dank, stale atmosphere. How long have I been in here? Cletus wondered, glancing at the clock. It was already forty-seven hours into lunar day, but he’d only slept once. He needed to bed down soon or he was going to be worthless on his upcoming site inspection.

The new suit from corporate, Tracy Something stood in the doorway. Cletus couldn’t remember his last name, and were he pressed to think about it, would have to admit that he simply didn’t care to. He was clean cut, with a razor close shave, neatly coifed hair, and a well-tailored suit, impeccably lint-rolled and black as lunar night. In other words, he couldn’t look more out of place on the moon were he wearing a purple dinosaur suit and crafting balloon animals.

Without asking, Tracy took a seat on the opposite side of Cletus’s desk. Cletus looked long and hard down his nose at the man, waiting for him to say something. For a moment the two just stared at one another, the re-oxygenator humming and ticking in the background. It’s like you all read the same stupid fucking book, Cletus thought, noting the penny-ante power move Tracy was trying to pull. Cletus took a sip of coffee and wiped the excess from his full, steel wool, gray and white beard, without breaking eye contact.

Tracy took the hint and broke first. “I want to talk about this quarter’s ore numbers.”

“They’re well within mission parameters,” said Cletus in a way that suggested he was really saying, Good talk, next topic .

“Yes, they are,” said Tracy. “But they’re not improving.”

“And they’re not going to.”

Tracy hardened, repositioning himself as if his balls had suddenly grown five sizes. “That’s unacceptable.”

“That’s reality,” said Cletus. “We’ve been mining up here for a long time. I’ve been doing it near twenty-seven years myself. We have procedures. We do math. You tell me how many guys I’ve got on a crew, what machines they’re using, and which quadrant you’re sending them to, and I can tell you within three tons how much ore they’re gonna dig out in a shift. Pure and simple.”

“That’s the type of thinking that’s kept you up here on the moon, Culpepper.”

“I like the moon. And it’s Cletus.”

“I’m not here to make friends, Culpepper. I don’t need to know your first fucking name.”

Oh, Cletus thought. He’s one of those. “Well, friends are a good thing to have up here. It’ll be a long, slow few years without them.”

“I won’t be here that long.”

“You won’t?” At this point, Cletus was just humoring him. He’d had this conversation before. Several times, actually. He tried to keep a straight face as he listened to the same spiel dressed up with different invectives.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” said Tracy. “I don’t give a shit about mining. I care about numbers. I care about the company’s bottom line. This is just another step up the ladder for me. I’ll be back in Chicago in a corner office before you can say quarterly report. And you can either help me get there, or you can stay here in this moondust-covered corner of hell for the rest of your miserable career.”

“What do you give a shit about? Apart from numbers and the bottom line?”

“What do I care about?”

“Yeah. Why do you want that corner office?”

Tracy pursed his lips, considering whether or not to open up, then nodded. “You ever been to a Cubs game?”

“No.”

“Any ballgame?”

“Sure. But it’s been a couple decades.”

“Well, I went to a Cubs game once, with my boss at the time.” Tracy leaned forward in his chair, softening, becoming wistful. “I was his assistant, but his buddy had bailed and he let me take the extra seat. The company has this luxury box—right up close. There’s nothing like it. You’re right there, right up in it. The smell of the fresh cut grass. The roar of the crowd. The well-stocked liquor cabinet. The way all of us were just… friends. Together at a game. That’s what I want. I want to watch the Cubs, every time they play, right from my own pair of seats in that luxury box. And I’ll do whatever it takes to get that office, to get those seats.”

“Even come to the moon?”

“Even come to the fucking moon.”

“You don’t mince words, do you?”

“I don’t have time for bullshit, Culpepper.”

“Well, do you mind if I mince a couple for a spell?”

“Say what you need to. But my mind is made up.”

“The moon is a sideways step.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” said Cletus, “that no one ever gets sent to the moon on their way to a corner office. The only suits that ever darken my doorway are those who have stalled out on their way up and take this gig for the hazard pay, or those that don’t know any better. We go through a lot of you guys. You either pack up and go home when you’ve had enough or you get buried here. No one ever goes up.”

“Well, I’m going to be different.”

“You know how many times I’ve heard that? I mean that exact phrasing?”

“Don’t underestimate me.”

“Then be different,” said Cletus in complete earnestness. “I’ll hit the numbers. The company will see its profit. You just stay outta my way and figure out how to get off the moon and back on track to that corner office. Cause you ain’t gonna get it from here. I got a cemetery out in Quadrant Two full of shallow graves of guys and gals who thought this was their ticket to the boardroom.”

“Is that some sort of a threat?”

“Not even remotely. The moon is a dangerous place. Pod blowouts, machinery accidents, suit malfunctions. Frankly, I’m shocked I’ve gone this long up here. Pretty sure corporate only keeps me around at this point to pad average life expectancy on the insurance statements.”