Christopher Nuttall: A Learning Experience

And they’d really hate the idea of someone setting up an independent state on the moon.

He pushed the thought aside and looked at Charles. “I want the three of us to put our heads together and work out a list of people who might be suitable recruits for our new society,” he said. “Mainly military veterans, but feel free to add people who haven’t served, but might still be useful. Ideally, people more than a little disenchanted with the government.”

“Don’t go for anyone on active service,” Kevin offered, “Too much room for divided loyalties.”

“Understood,” Charles said. He held up a hand before Steve could say a word. “What do we do if someone turns down our offer? Because someone will, soon enough. Either because they don’t want to leave their comfortable homes or because they have patriotic objections to setting up on our own.”

Steve swallowed. The thought of killing someone who knew too much was sickening, yet they might not have a choice. Unless they intended to take prisoners…

He paused. “Could we wipe their minds?”

Kevin hesitated. “Perhaps,” he said. “But the techniques are unreliable.”

“We’ll deal with it when it happens,” Steve said. He knew he was pushing the problem back until they actually had to confront it, but he saw no alternative. “It depends on the exact situation.”

Charles gave him a knowing look, but said nothing. Instead, he changed the subject.

“You do realise we’ll need a constitution and everything, soon enough?”

“Soon,” Steve said. “Or maybe we could just crib the one we already have.”

“You’d better go chat to Mariko,” Mongo said. “And I should go chat to Jayne.”

Charles swore out loud. “And Vincent! What do we do about him ?”

Steve felt a sudden spurt of hope. “Could the alien tech reanimate him?”

Kevin shook his head. “Not now his brain has been dead for too long,” he said. “But we could bury him on the moon.”

“Except someone would notice he was gone,” Steve said. Vincent hadn’t exactly been unpopular. His wife might not be expecting him back for another week, but she was expecting him. They’d have to tell her something, preferably the truth. “We can fake his death in an accident that wipes out all traces of anything… inhuman.”

“Have to be a pretty nasty accident,” Charles said.

“Vincent was always modifying those old cars of his,” Mongo reminded them. “It wouldn’t be too hard to rig one so it exploded, burning him to death and wiping out the evidence.”

“We could probably fix up his body too, a little,” Kevin added. “Or we could simply report that he disappeared on our camping trip.”

“Or we could simply disappear completely ourselves,” Steve mused. “Wives, children… all gone to space. Nothing left for anyone to find.”

He shook his head. “I want to speak to Mariko,” he said. It wasn’t fair to leave his partner out of it, particularly as she shared his disdain for the federal government. “But we should work out a list of likely contacts now, while we explore more of what this ship can do.”

It was nearly an hour before they had a list of forty possible names. The arguments waxed and waned over some of the more controversial additions; Kevin had wanted a handful of intelligence specialists to help go through the ship’s databanks, while Charles and Mongo wanted more Marines and Rangers respectively. There was a general agreement against head-hunting any of the USAF’s fighter jocks, but some heavy transport pilots — and CAS — specialists — would be very welcome. And then Charles had another brainwave.

“There’s always Ed,” he said. “The one with busted legs. What about him?”

Steve gave him a sharp look. Edward Romford had been badly wounded during the flare-up in Afghanistan and then, thanks to the VA’s incompetence, hadn’t received medical treatment in time to save his spine. He was currently permanently installed in a residence home near New York, trapped in a wheelchair that he hated. Steve liked Ed — they’d shared some fun times together — but it was hard to face him after he’d been permanently crippled. The sight of the wounded veteran was a reminder that Steve could have easily ended up just like him.

He smiled, slowly, as he realised what Charles meant. “We could save his legs, couldn’t we?”

“Or make him an enhanced soldier,” Kevin added. “Humanity’s very first cyborg.”

“Why not?” Steve asked. “You start working on a plan to get him out of the residence home without raising too many eyebrows.”

Kevin smirked. “Daring commando raid?”

“I was thinking more about offering to take him into the ranch,” Steve said, patiently.

“Or we could just beam him out of the residence,” Mongo offered. “Maybe give one of those bitch nurses a heart attack.”

“Something more subtle than that,” Steve said, warningly. He stood up. “Unless anyone has any objection, I intend to beam down and collect Vincent’s body, then proceed to the ranch and explain everything to Mariko.”

“No objections here,” Mongo said. “Just make sure you bring her up here before Jayne sees you. She’ll want to know what happened to me.”

Steve smirked. “I’ll tell her you’re several thousand light years away.”

“I hate you,” Mongo said, without heat. “And so will Jayne, if you don’t let me tell her first.”

Steve nodded and accessed the user interface. After what had happened to Kevin, he was reluctant to submerge himself in data; instead, he asked questions and listened carefully to the responses. The teleporter — he had to remind himself to stop thinking of it as a transporter — seemed to work along the basic Star Trek principles. It was just a little dodgy to use it without a proper matter buffer at one end of the teleport.

“Find a science-fiction author we can recruit,” he said, after losing himself in the technobabble once again. “Someone who speaks fluent Geek. Hell, we probably need someone to come to grips with just what combat in space actually entails.”

“I’ll find one,” Kevin promised. “Good luck, bro.”

“Just don’t let yourself be seen materialising,” Charles warned. “One of your kids might be sharp enough to realise he wasn’t seeing things.”

“They probably would,” Kevin agreed. “And think how much smarter they will be once neural interface technology enters the educational system. They’ll be able to imprint information into their minds.”

“Not with the teachers unions,” Charles commented.

“There won’t be any on the moon,” Steve said. He smiled as his dream unfolded in front of him. “It will be a land of individualists, with no collective responsibility for anything.”

“Really?” Charles asked. “Even defence?”

“It may take us a while to work out a political theory,” Steve admitted. “I’ll beam down now, folks. Have fun in my absence.”

“We’ll try not to crash the ship into an asteroid,” Mongo called.

Steve gave him a one-fingered gesture and walked out the hatch.

Montana, USA

The Stuart Family Ranch wasn’t that large, not compared to some of the huge ranches in Montana. Situated between two mountain ranges, it consisted of three barns, five fields and a large pond Steve had fished in, when he was a younger child. His ancestors had made it a point of pride that their somewhat isolated ranch rarely needed to hire outside help. The family could handle it for themselves, they’d decided, although they’d had problems doing both that and fighting for their country. But it had bred a self-reliance in them that had kept the family going through thick and thin.