From Earth, through 238,857 miles of seemingly endless space, the Moon resided. It shone in a brilliance rarely seen.
As if an ageless battle of dominance, the Moon finally won its revenge. It stared down on the barren Earth and boasted in all its arrogance. It boasted of its long overdue victory. The Moon now harbored life which now teemed around 3,217,738 square miles of its surface. This expanded to hold a human, clone and half-breed population of 157 million. The Moon now outshone all other hubs of life in the known galaxy.
Be this as it may, the Moon was far from alone. This life expanded to a wide band of colonies. Among them were Mars, Jupiter’s moons: Ganymede, Europa and Callisto; and Saturn’s moons: Titan, Dione, Mimas and Iapetus, not to mention, two dozen lesser moons scattered all across the galaxy. Beyond this, life flourished within thousands of man-made satellites and space faring vessels. Through it all, the Moon reigned queen of her domain, the known solar system.
Craters filled the Moon’s expanse like a series of bullet holes. Among these laid the great region better known as the Five Mares, or Five Seas in Latin. Each of the Mares represented the impact sites of huge craters which, filled with lava eons ago. They’ve long since cooled and solidified to form plains; ideal for habitation. There were twelve Mares in all, but currently only five were heavily inhabited. These were comprised of Mare Nectaris, Mare Fecunditatis, Mare Tranquillitatis, Mare Serenitatis and Mare Crisium. Though Maria is plural for Mare the Five Marias never caught on. The image of horses proved more robust.
Strewn across the surface of the Mares were hundreds of domes . . . 872 at last count. These domes were all man-made, airtight and filled with the oxygen substitute, triexelyne. Oxygen was still plentiful on Earth, but it was all irradiated and unfit to breath. Clean, pure oxygen was an extreme rarity. Triexelyne, or “trix”, was the last major breakthrough in technology before the holocaust . . . it turned out to be the best, even if a chemical reaction turned it into a hazy blue fog at -22 below zero. No one, besides the mother company, knew the formula for which trix was composed. It was a well-guarded secret, which many died trying to obtain.
The Trix flowing through these domes worked its way from one to the next by underground vents, bringing life to the rich and poor alike. The domes varied greatly in size and importance, which referred to the wealthy, who primarily resided in Mare Crisium, the Moon’s version of downtown.
Two domes within this Mare stood out against all the rest. One was the Cryox Dome, headquarters for Cryox Industrial; the other was the Snyder Dome, headquarters for Oxy-Core Chemical. These two corporations dwarfed the other domes and commanded a dozen or so smaller domes each. Both were bitter financial rivals, but both were locked together in the ever-lasting struggle for life. One produced triexelyne, the substance which maintains life; and the other manufactured the space faring suits that kept the triexelyne from dispersing into the vastness of space.
Here is where the olive branch of peace will soon be broken and tolerance will give way to fury.
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The sunrise beckoned from across space; the light surpassing the great distance in a mere second. The Sun shone a pale glint through the tinted, dust covered outer dome. The inner dome met the light as through a gray stained glass window. Coupled with the constant flood of hazy triexelyne, the dim glare combined to form a dense fog enshrouding the isolated cityscape. Within the hour the dense haze would recede to a hint of blue morning mist as it rose from the dull gray surface.
It was a brilliant sight, made even more so after the long, cold wait. Broken down, the wait was exactly 13 days, 15 hours, 50 minutes and 40 seconds; or 13.66 days. It was the beginning of the Moon’s seventh summer, or the ending of it, depending on which side you were on.
The Moon’s seasons were very complicated . . . anyplace where a day lasts the same length as a year, would be. This may sound fanciful, but it’s a truth the inhabitants of Moonbase have learned to live with. The revolution of the Moon is greatly affected by the Earth’s gravitational pull, slowing it down to a meager 27.32 Earth days . . . the exact same time it takes for the Moon to make one complete orbit around the Earth. This is the reason why Marescape, the side of the Moon where the Five Mares reside, is the only side ever visible from Earth.
Twelve Moon years are required for one Earth year, which is where the Earth’s months first originated. Yet all these facts combine to give the Moon twelve summers and twelve winters, each lasting 13.66 Earth days. Each summer and winter were extremely harsh due to the prolonged exposure to the Sun, or lack thereof. Winters reached temperatures of -244 F., while summers sometimes soared to 224 F.
For Moonbase this created a freezer during the winter and an oven during the summer. Maintaining a temperature balance was murder on climate systems base wide. The system was the best ever designed, yet still required a complete overhaul every Earth year. Not to mention almost weekly repairs, a required surplus of new spare parts and a huge yearly budget on repair crews. The inner and outer domes also suffered wear and tear as condensation mixed with the intense heat and cold. The Moon had no atmosphere and therefore no precipitation, no rain or snow, resulting in a dry Moon with dust drier than any desert on Earth, before or after the holocaust. Water would’ve frozen and contracted both domes until they cracked open, seeping precious triexelyne into the vastness space. Though there was no water on the outside of the domes, condensation on the inside had to be closely monitored at all times, especially in the greenhouse domes . . . always a costly affair during winters.
Radiation poisoning was also a serious concern when living on a moon with no atmosphere. All domes were specially designed with tints and filters limiting the damage. The hazy triexelyne seemed to offer a slight degree of protection. Minimal damage was done during the winters, though the summers were far more severe. This forced a continually expanding construction deep into the Moon’s interior.
In less than a decade the subterranean world would be greater than the city above ground. Those who opted to stay topside for extended periods were strongly urged to wear heavy lead gear, a substance which already lined every building. Though this was mainly needed when outside, as very few buildings had windows. Lead poisoning became an epidemic in domes unable to afford proper filters.
All this coupled with periodic mass depression brought on by 13.66 straight days without a hint of sunlight, aside from the Moon’s halo in the sky, Earth . . . which had become the Moon’s moon. This was followed by an occasional surge of insomnia caused by 13.66 straight days without any night.
Most agreed living on Mars was saner, where martial law wasn’t always one step away.
Nevertheless life was awakening at a slow, steady pace; all except for those already awake and above ground. They woke early to celebrate the new season . . . the single day of spring, when the temperature was perfect, naturally. In 13.66 days there would be another such occurrence for the single day season of fall. Though not everyone considered these viable seasons, both were cause for celebration and many did for all 12 springs and all 12 falls. This particular one, the seventh, equated to early July on Earth. Almost needless to say, July 4th . . . the American Day of Independence, was no longer celebrated. Even if it had been, fireworks would’ve been strictly banned in such a delicately balanced society.
Those still asleep wouldn’t be for long. Life would soon be bursting at the seams as the greatest metropolis in the universe began the day. Slums were few in rich, cold Mare Crisium. As a whole, this cold extended into the souls of the corporate elite, as they mercilessly devastated the multitudes with the stroke of a pen. The time was summed up by a late scholar stating a bluntly accurate passage. “Bureaucracy is the most treacherous battlefield of all. Where else could one slaughter so many innocents with so little consequence, and all in the name of the law?”
The heart of the beast lay within the Cryox Frame, the only towering high rise to stretch the limits of the massive dome itself. It loomed high above all else, dead in the center of Cryox Dome, casting a long, foreboding shadow across the land for as long as the Sun should shine.
At the pinnacle of the tower resided the penthouse and living quarters for the upper echelon of elite. Beyond the dull gray barriers and plexiglass spread a breathtaking view, a panoramic vista of cityscape, majestic craters and the Earth high in the sky, with the Sun peeking from beyond the horizon.
The day had begun; and behind two huge steel doors voices could be heard.
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“Been so busy I almost forgot, how’s Betty doin’?”
Chris Pierce stared across the room. The meeting was over, but this was the part he dreaded . . . trying to look and sound sympathetic over that damned black rhino. In truth, he couldn’t wait for the ancient behemoth to keel over. The mere stench seemed to assault him with each mandated visit, as if bracing to take a sledgehammer to the face each day. He’d checked and couldn’t find any clause requiring him to enjoy it, but that must’ve been a silent, unwritten rule.
Chris attempted to conjure a tear, put on his best “sorry mama” expression and proceeded to sound rather pathetic. “Sorry boss, Betty’s just too damn old; clones live a hell of a lot longer than the real thing, but she’s like . . . what is it? 62, no 63 years old? We’re doin’ all we can, but she has only a few weeks at best.”
Both men were wearing the newest armani suits, but Dan Sykes’ seemed to wrinkle at the finality of the statement, despite the fact this wasn’t exactly news. Betty had better health care than most people and had been diagnosed with cancer over a month ago.
The long pause and Chris’s sheepish grin didn’t help either.
Betty was Dan Sykes’s special pet. For years Sykes reveled in the fact he owned the only existing ivory bearing animal to survive the holocaust. Who else could claim to have a living black rhino, clone or otherwise (or any color rhino for that matter, even though Betty had more of a grayish hue). From Betty many half-breeds were conjured, but they all made ya’ wanna puke, Sykes thought. True clones, what was left of them, were gods compared to half-breeds.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
Sykes lifted his head from his hands and gave his Chief of Security a look that said drop dead. “Get, the fuck, out of my face, Pierce. Only a breed could be fooled by that performance.”
Chris suddenly felt self-conscious and looked as if he’d been hit by a hover train. He slinked out as nasty thoughts ripped through his head.
After Pierce was gone, Sykes noticed the small puddle of tears in his hands, a solitary white hair floating on the surface. The hair was just one of thousands enveloping his head and face, all combining to give the man a misleading Santa Clause guise. People might’ve been fooled had it not been for his suit and the near constant frown painted so eloquently on his wrinkled face.
“Damn.”, he whispered as he punished himself for losing his composure. Even so, if he was going to lose it, Betty was the best reason possible. The two of them were . . . connected somehow. Just thinking about her dying, he swore it aged him a decade or two beyond his 89 years.
Betty was brought to Sykes’s Moon branch three years before the big one hit. She was smuggled, really. Being a newborn she was small enough to do so. Exotic animals weren’t allowed on Moonbase before the holocaust. Hell, nothing more than a dog or a cat was. He was 26 then, just a kid really, but smart enough to run the business he’d long since inherited from his father, Josh Hileander Sykes.
Cryox Industrial. Everyone knows it now. It’s the biggest space suit manufacturing company in the known universe. They even built the new plasti-crome suit, labeled PCS-10,000. Cryox wasn’t much before the holocaust, but Sykes turned out to be the only manufacturer of space suits smart enough to branch out to Moonbase. God knows why not. Space suits belonged in outer space, right?
Well, not anymore. Who would’ve guessed it, but space suits were now used on Earth, as well . . . can’t breathe radioactive oxygen. That’s what made Dan Sykes rich, but Betty made him richer. People still want ivory, just like they do leather and wool. Clone Betty and you have just another lucrative monopoly, not to mention a plethora of rhino burgers.
This being the case, Dan Sykes’s office was adorned with all kinds of ivory sculptures. It stuck out in places where synthesized wood was normally found. Real wood was an even rarer commodity. Sykes had some though, a chunk about the size of a pre-holocaust rubik’s cube. He used it, of all things as a paperweight sitting upon his ivory topped desk. His office was also well furnished with two leather covered sofas, both stuffed with sheep wool.
Ironic, Sykes thought, all this was made possible ‘cause ‘a half-breeds, but hell, so what? Fuck’n breeds seemed much more blissful as a stain smeared across the pavement. Perhaps even angelic as ice crystals covered their corpse in what some might consider a work of art.
Right then, Sykes’s wrist-com flashed and Rhonda’s pretty picture booted up onto the miniature screen. “Mr. Sykes, your 10:00 A.M. with Oxy-Core is here.” The voice was sweet, a symphony with every breath. “Shall I send them in?”
After clearing his throat Sykes replied. “No, have Joe check them for firearms and stunners, and make them wait another ten minutes.”
“Yes sir. Oh, my condolences about Betty.”
“Thanks, Rhonda.”
Sykes straightened his white beard as he pondered his good fortune at finding Rhonda. She was a good kid. He couldn’t have picked a better secretary. It even seemed she cared about Betty, or at least knew the right thing to say. She showed a sincerity Chris couldn’t comprehend.
Sykes relaxed for the next ten minutes, smoking his antique 98,000 credit pipe. Betty was still heavy on his mind, but he knew the upcoming meeting would bring about some consolation. Composing himself for it was a must, though he would’ve had them wait anyhow.
Rhonda was the only one allowed to use his wrist-com while he was in the office; it offered more privacy and couldn’t be traced. So, soon after, Sykes’s desk-com came alive with Joe’s somewhat scarred, muscular face. He must’ve been a football star once.
Then Dan Sykes’s top bodyguard spoke . . . s’pose the deep voice goes with the territory. “Mr. Sykes, they’re all clean, except for Mr. Johnson’s marijuana joint.”
Ah, Sykes thought, one of the pre-holocaust’s favorite past times. Hard to come by now, though. Derrick Johnson must be better off than he thought. Let’s see what we can do about that, shall we?
“Has he smoked it? Can’t do business when you’re high.”
“No, Mr. Sykes, it’s still in cellophane. Shall I confiscate it?”
“Let him keep it, Joe. He’ll need it once we’ve concluded.”
Joe broke a smile, one of his few. “Yes sir, shall I send them in?”
“Bring ‘em on Joe, bring ‘em on.”
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Derrick Johnson was president of Oxy-Core Chemical, Moonbase branch, and shouldered most of the burden. He was a comely, clean-shaven man with tempered, auburn hair. His fine nose was evenly centered between small, modest ears, stern lips and a pair of unwavering emerald eyes, which searched every new environment as cautious as a lynx on the scent of prey.
He possessed a certain presence, as if the world would momentarily stop ticking upon his entrance into any room. He was a man who knew who he was and what he wanted, yet unlike Sykes, Derrick’s morals sometimes impeded his progress. He exuded confidence . . . and a carefully controlled fear.
He looked starved. Though, in truth, Derrick’s tall, scrawny physique veiled an incredible metabolism. Not more than an hour ago he’d devoured a full course breakfast seemingly without gaining a pound. Should one have ears keen enough, they’d discern his stomach grumbling for seconds. It was his blessing . . . or his curse. It all depended upon one’s perspective.
Derrick’s silver framed glasses were custom crafted and looked as if part of his physiology. The lenses went well with his new armani suit. Off center zippers were the hottest thing, especially if it were joined by the tuxedo-like coat-tails, which had now been moved to the front. Other than this the suit was navy blue with tastefully placed white stripes. A pair of matching suit pants, vest and tie were included. The entire 280,000 credit ensemble had sold him with the motto “simple, sophisticated, dangerous”, which were the three words that best described Mr. Derrick Johnson.
Although, the man didn’t look as young as he felt. He was 38 years old and a few white hairs had begun showing through the remnants of his rusty sideburns. He could’ve whisked these hairs away with some new formula, but he felt they gave him a more dignified aura . . . and that they did. Though, even if it hadn’t, none would have told him so. Triexelyne made Derrick Johnson one of the most powerful men on Moonbase . . . and thus, the known universe.
He’d inherited Oxy-Core’s Moonbase branch seven years earlier when his father, Kyle Johnson, passed away. His younger brother, Jamie, was given Mars branch, and his younger sister, Keriah, got hold of Saturn’s Titan moon branch. Both were considered senior vice-presidents.
They were all present in one room. It was the first time they’d been together in five years. It was a reunion of sorts. It’s just too bad the reunion had to take place at Cryox Industrial; a company with the infamous Dan Sykes at the helm. All three were well aware of his role in Oxy-Core.
Oxy-Core Chemical wasn’t always a large, profitable corporation. Everyone starts small. Derrick wasn’t around then, but he knew that a couple years before the holocaust, back when oxygen was plentiful, Oxy-Core was nothing more than an experimental project run by Johnson’s grandfather, Daniel.
Naturally, donations and loans were scarce. In fact, Oxy-Core would’ve gone under if it hadn’t been for a young entrepreneur from Cryox Industrial. This was in the year 2079 and Dan Sykes was only 25 at the time, but possessed more business sense than men twice his age.
Sometimes, Johnson thought, “Sykes must be a clone. No one could know everything he knows and still be human.”
Then Johnson would remember how much Sykes loathed clones, especially half-breeds. Hey, who doesn’t? Yet Sykes went overboard in his hatred. The man’s a big game hunter, or at least he was before the holocaust . . . before almost all the big game animals perished. Now Dan Sykes liked to hunt down half-breeds and torture them until they beg to die. The cops hate them too and look the other way, but torture? How could such a man be a clone?
If not, how could he know what he knew? How could he have known all those years ago to buy up half of Oxy-Core’s stock? Johnson tried to tell himself otherwise, but everyone who knew the story knew the truth. Sykes was ready to collect.
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The antique steel door swung upon old-style hinges no longer used and opened with an eloquence that Sykes never thought the ex-football star could have possessed. Beyond the widening crack appeared Joe’s handsome mug; and beyond him awaited a real treat indeed.
Derrick Johnson and his siblings filed into the spacious office, and with them flooded an anxiety almost tangible enough to touch. Sykes silently agreed with their consensus and reveled in it. The perfunctory office procedure was well-known by Joe and he remained in the room in case of protest, which was actually quite likely in this case.
“Please, be seated.” Sykes announced.
A response was normally in order, but Derrick didn’t think the bastard deserved one, and the others were too subdued to think of anything appropriate.
So the pause lasted a millennia and eventually Sykes continued. “I can only assume you all know why I’ve asked you here today.”
They did, or thought they did, but remained silent. It was all they could do to keep from saying something they’d regret later on. It was how they lived. The trio’s number one rule in relations with Cryox Industrial or its affiliates was “be nice”. That was, be polite and afford them every convenience you could allow without compromising business structure, etc. Sykes held all the cards and they all knew it. They had to keep the bastard happy, even though it went against their very nature.
They had too. Aside from Derrick, it wasn’t procedure to up and leave a booming industry as far away as Titan, or even Mars. Especially not on short notice with no explanation. Over the years, they’d all gone out of their way for this man and the only thing it seemed to have gained them is a little more time.
As the pause continued, a rustle of papers could be heard. The papers in question were old, yellowed and probably worth a fortune on their own, aside from what they stood for.
“Please forgive their appearance, but they are originals.”
Derrick finally asked the big question, just in case his instincts were wrong. “Originals of what?”
Dan Sykes feigned surprise. “Oh, Mr. Johnson, I thought you already knew.”
“Knew . . . what?”
“That Oxy-Core is mine, of course.”
The Johnson’s tensed as their bubble of hope burst.
Suddenly Keriah broke the silence. “Never, you bastard. I don’t give a fuck what you think you’re holding. We’ll fight it . . . I don’t care if we have to go to the Supreme Court. We’ll fight till the end. We’ll tie up the transfer in court so long that you’ll die of old age before you hold our deed. Hell, you’re almost there already!”
“Well, Ms. Johnson, you do show a lot of spirit, but I really don’t think the courts will take that long to decide . . . you know as well as I, that Oxy-Core is mine legally.”
“I don’t think so Sykes.” Derrick said, “You only bought up half the shares.”
“Well, now, that’s true, but you can’t keep Oxy-Core running with only half your assets, and when the rest goes up for auction I’ll bid the highest.”
“Fuck you, Sykes!” Jamie screamed.
“No!” Derrick interrupted. “I don’t care how many of our assets you take, neither my father or grandfather ever signed over our triexelyne formula, and without that you’re still screwed.”
Sykes grin widened. “Oh, I think we may have that little dilemma figured out . . . c’mon, Jamie, tell him. Tell your dear old brother how you signed everyone’s life away on the dotted line.”
Suddenly Jamie’s rage turned to sheer terror and he blushed five shades of red. All the eyes in the room were turned on him. He was the center of attention. Oh, how he longed for that when he was younger, but never, never like this.
“Fuck, Jamie, what did you do?! Tell me this is just a bad joke!”
“I’m afraid not son, it was a sad, sad time and Jamie’s gambling debts had reached an epic high . . . and, well, I think you can figure the rest out for yourself, Mr. Johnson.”
Jamie screamed and tried to run from the room only to collide with Joe’s huge, undulating mass. The younger Mr. Johnson crumpled to the floor as if every bone in his body had been magically removed.
Jamie’s newfound headache cut through him like a mallet through tinfoil. He hurt and didn’t want to get up . . . never wanted to rise again. He wished, for all he was worth, that the bodyguard hadn’t disarmed him earlier . . . so he could . . . blow his own brains out. Yet, this was not to be. Joe picked him up by one arm and handed him to his new enemies, his brother and sister.