EXILE

Tom walked towards the canteen area with the tall stranger walking next to him. Come to think of it, his inner voice said, most people are tall to you. Ah, well. Moshe had only ever asked him to guide a newboy twice before, so in a way he should feel honoured, and also obliged to meet Moshe’s expectations. Moshe felt either intrigued or threatened by this man, probably the former. Tom knew what Moshe wanted - could this man be a deputy, even a successor to Moshe? At the moment, Tom was certain that there was no one person on the team who could adequately fill Moshe’s shoes. The strength of Moshe’s team lay in strong specialisation with broad generalisation. Although different convicts could even now out-shine Moshe in some areas of the team supervision, Moshe was consistently good at all aspects of the role, understood and was skilled at all tasks and machine operation, and was fair in dispute resolution. In short, he was a consummate leader, and without an equally adept deputy.

“Long flight, huh?”

“Yup.” Abe shrugged.

“Near on thirty months since I made the trip, now. S’pose you’re hungry.”

“Pretty much. Not that I’d admit it.”

“Oh, uh, I see. Hey, I know the spacer food is crap. It’s better up here.” Stein’s response was exactly what Tom was looking for. His eyebrows raised in surprise, and a mild smile appeared.

“Really? I’d resigned myself to a life of pureed muck with the taste of stale cardboard.”

“Not here, mate. We’re responsible for all waste reclamation, recycling, protein production, processing and food production. If we live on a diet of tasteless or revolting mush, it’s our own problem. The quality of our food is entirely up to us. Of course, the squaddies and the warden all have to eat the same food, so we’re encouraged to produce edible food.”

“Bit of a turnaround.”

“Yeah, well y’see, on the remand platforms, you were on the receiving end of a resource budget. Their facilities are smaller, for a similar number. They have to be much tighter with their use of available resources. Also, with regular flights up from dirtside, they can import whatever normal food that they feel like having.”

“Glad to hear it, Tom.”

The two men reached the kitchen outlet. “Steak? Broccoli?” Tom lifted the steel lids off from two tubs set into the marine. Abe looked in and, taking a pair of tongs, pulled out what looked to be a well-done minute steak.

“How? Cow?”

“Nope.” Tom grabbed a tray and a plate. “A modified yoghurt bacillus cultured in the filtered and separated sewage protein mass, sterilised, denatured, flavoured and compressed into pieces that are sliced as steak. One of the favourites - sewage sirloin, the guys call it.”

Abe took all this in, showing no expression. “I’d wondered how this would look as an end product.”

“What, you know about this?” Abe was the first newboy that Tom had seen who hadn’t reacted with the typical revulsion.

“I was an industrial architect. I had some involvement with the initial design work for the sewage works up here. Of course, I only know about it from paper, never having seen it in the flesh, as it were.”

“Well, hey, you’re one up on us there. Most others puke when they’re told.”

“Understandable.” They sat down at one of the long tables. “But then, it’s not as if there’s much choice, is there?”

“No. Everyone gets used to it, some more than others.” As Tom spoke, he flicked his head over towards Joe Sloan, who was busy working his way through a small mountain of brown, grey and green food. Abe watched Joe eat, and turned back to Tom.

“Does he always eat that much?”

“More or less. Hey, Joe! This is Abe Stein, okay? He’s just pulled in from the platforms. Abe, meet Joe Sloan. He’s our team anchor man, one of the fittest and strongest guys in the quadrant.”

“Only before I shower,” Joe replied, grinning as he leaned over to shake Abe’s hand. “You should like it here. Hell, too bad if you don’t, eh, Tom?”

“You could say that, mate. Part of Joe’s job is to burn more calories than the rest of the crew together, I think. Either that, or he genuinely likes that stuff that we grow.”

Joe smiled to himself, and took another mouthful. While Joe chewed, Tom filled the silence.

“Say, Abe, we’re all pretty open around here, no secrets, that sort of stuff. We’ll find out, anyway. Look, I’m up here for being a deadly weapon.”

“What?”

“I ran a martial arts gym in London, and I guess I learned more than I should have. I was jumped one night by four guys. Killed two and crippled the others. I said self-defence, they said I was hot-wired by steroids and went out looking for trouble. I didn’t, but I found that one was the kid brother of the junior prosecutor. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I was judged to be a menace to society, and for the good of the public I was to be removed from contact. Sure, I killed two men, and if it wasn’t self defence I would have gone down for murder, and been fried in the new year. So, all things considered, I’m lucky to be here.”

“You’re probably right,” Abe replied, thoughtfully, not saying anything further. Tom’s attention was pricked alert by this cryptic comment, and rightfully tried to read into more than he was faced with.

“Really? Some would beg to differ,” he ventured, hoping that Abe might expand on his last comment.

“Well, everything’s relative, isn’t it?” Abe responded, after a short pause. “But you should think about lifestyle, too. What does Earth have to offer, other from an uncertain future? At least here, you’re busy, and you have to admit that the air and water are cleaner than anything that you’re likely to get dirtside. Anyway, how long could you expect to live for, down there?”

“I don’t know - you tell me.” Tom looked for a cue, but Abe closed up then, but with an expectant “I’ve already told you more than I should have” look on his face. Tom moved on. “So, hey, I’ve told you mine. What are you here for?”

Abe snorted, looked away, and then back to Tom and Joe.

“I was arrested in a hotel room the morning of the Committee assassinations at the new spaceport.”

“Assassinations? Sorry, but we’re in total isolation up here - not much news gets here except for what newboys like yourself bring up.”

“Yeah. Apparently the Freedom Movement popped a few Committee members when the Chicago spaceport was officially opened.”

“That’s the one that the Taylor estate was demolished for?”

“That’s the one. Anyway, I was already in custody when it happened, so although they had planned to, they couldn’t pin the murder rap on me. So, they found some Movement documents that they had scored during a raid, and proved in court that I wrote them. Next step was orbit, literally within hours of court.”

Tom whistled in surprise. “Seems like they moved at light-speed on your case. I was back in the San Antonio remand for five weeks before I hit the launch pad.”

“It was fairly swift. But then, they had no other suspects for the shootings, and they had to save face, publicly. By linking me into the plot, and showing that they had me arrested for conspiracy an impossibly short time before the event, they could show off, as it were.”

“So, these documents, did you write them?” Tom watched carefully, but Abe just smiled at him.

“The court says that I did, so what does it matter?” Tom looked up, locking eyes with Abe, whose watery blue eyes penetrated to Tom’s inner conscious, speaking volumes but saying nothing at all. “Tell me, Tom, how many people up here arrived for ordinary crimes against innocent people?”

“Bugger all, Abe. The serious ones get shot. Nearly everyone here are those that the government doesn’t want on Earth, in the way of their plans. Trouble being, of course, none up here did anything to warrant them spending seventy cents on a couple of rounds from a 0.44. They just want us out of circulation, with no way of getting back in. But, you knew that, anyway.”

“Guess so.” Abe bit off another mouthful of syn-steak. “Tell me about the roof,” he continued, pointing upwards with his fork.

Tom almost welcomed the change in direction that the conversation had taken, glad that Abe had taken over the steering. He had had enough information to keep Moshe thinking and scheming for a long time yet.

“In the early days of the colony, only Q7, now the admin, guardhouse and infirmary was here, different levels used for different purposes, augmented by the original surface structures. The first excavation after Q7 was this hole here, the first lunar hard-rock mineral mine. Open-cast, straight down. The early strike soon died, but that was expected. It was a localised micro-laccolith that was rich in magnetite. Even if it wasn’t of value dirtside, it had to be removed, as it was fucking up the magnetically-sensitive guidance and surveying systems. With the hole finished, the first hexagonal plexidome was built to seal us in, with the tunnelling scav-gear moved inside, first. Sealed in and pressurised, the teams camped out with two months of supplies and tunnelled their way back to Q7.”

“Are those tunnels still used?”

“Part was later expanded to form the Q6 axial gallery. But with the ring tunnel established a few years later, the original straight-tunnel was sealed up. The only things in there now are electrical lines and some long-term storage crates. Spare parts, medical supplies, bits of everything for everyone.”

“Okay. Moving on, what’s the routine here?”

“Simple enough. Two twelve-hour shifts. We’re here for the first three hours, the other nine in the dorm cells, twelve in each. We’ll go there now, it’s time soon, anyway. Curfew is tight. When we wake, the guards unlock the cells. We go down to the shower and ablutions area at the bottom of the hall, which slopes - we all slope down here, helps with the water reclamation. From the showers to the shuttle and work area for the next twelve hours, meals provided. Some of the twenty four men in the crew work in the maintenance workshop, so we never have more than twenty two on at a time, usually twenty one. There are two teams in Q6, forty eight convicts in all, with work progressing continuously.”

They walked as they talked, leaving the canteen hall for the main Q6 gallery. Tom pointed out the shower room at the end, and led Abe to one of the four dorm cells. “This will be yours - there are three beds to choose from in here, with a locker at the head of each bunk.”

A guard stood watch outside the door. Tom had purposefully led Abe to the cell that he and Moshe did not use. “You may as well go on in and catch some zeds. We’re not permitted to move freely around here. Remember, this is a prison. You could actually come straight here after shift, but it would be a very hungry twelve hours. Out of the kindness of their hearts, we have the option of up to three hours in the canteen. Anyway, the others will be in within the hour.”

“Sure, thanks.” Abe walked in slowly, getting his confidence in the lower gravity. When he turned, he saw Tom waiting at the door.

“I’ve got to go, now. Tomorrow we’ll find out what you’re good at.” And he was gone. Abe sighed, and returned to face the dorm cell’s interior. The bunks were moulded plastic and alloy structures stacked in pairs down each side of the ten metre long room. As Tom had said, each bunk had a small locker unit at its end. Abe walked down the centre - the three available bunks were obvious - bare mattresses (all dense plastifoam squabbing) with two sheets and two blankets folded up and stacked in the centre. The room was wide, with a rectangular table and six chairs in the middle of the room. All of the spare bunks were bottom ones, as if the top bunks were the favourites. No matter. A bunk is a bunk. Doubtless there’ll be plenty of opportunity to change, later.

He chose a bunk that was at the middle of the room’s length, away from the toilet cubicle at the end of the cell. He took the stack of linen off the bed, and set about making it, with the head being closest to the door. He opened the locker, and found that there was a full set of overalls for work. And, surprisingly, a toothbrush. There were no towels - he assumed that they would all be kept in the shower block. He closed the locker, and lowered himself onto the bunk. For the first time in weeks he had a decent bed. What a career move, he thought, and then laughed. At last he has a secure future. Still, after a lifetime struggling against the corrupt government, a rule of stifling bureaucratic tyranny, to suddenly have that same establishment consider him to be an investment and to look after his basic needs was, for Stein, perhaps the greatest irony. As a free man he had lived with the constant risk of having everything taken away, to live and die destitute among the forgotten people of the underground. Now that he was a criminal, the Global Union took great pains to keep him alive and healthy.

Still, he knew that plans were now under way on Earth to seriously challenge the Global Union’s grip on the Earth and its people. Should George Antunovich be successful, as he invariably was, then the control and management of the lunar colonies would be critical to the on-going program of liberation. If the Union were to retreat to its space outposts, it could sit and wait, withholding the increasingly important food, drugs and mineral exports that the Earth’s billions were more and more dependent on.

As it was, Earth’s population had reached an ecological crisis point, where its food production only barely balanced the demand. And even then, that was only due to the advanced culture techniques and genetically engineered organisms that now formed well in excess of sixty percent of the food consumed. Organisms and techniques that were developed in Quadrant Five, and food that was first grown in Q3. The expanding population made it essential that new cultures were continually developed, as they only ever had limited numbers of regenerative cycles. The woman’s colony provided new food cultures, new engineered strains of plant and animal cells that grew independently and used nothing but air, water and reclaimed sewage components. The situation had reached the stage where if the colony was to fail, the Earth could very well be plunged into the darkness of famine.

Stein’s mission was clear. If George’s plan worked, then for the Movement to successfully gain and hold the support of the Earth’s people, they would also need to control the moon and the platforms, otherwise the Union could sit there and wait, to ultimately return to a thoroughly undeserved welcome. To hold the Earth ransom to its food supply was a tactic that was morally corrupt, as befitting the gutter politics of the Union’s ruling Committee. Not even the hasty drafting-in of a few deputies recently to replace the spaceport deaths had changed anything with the Committee’s motives, or how they operated.

The main problem was a matter of time. There were already several Movement cell members who had been exported topside, but Stein had yet to find out where they were, and if they were alive. It was a testament to their secrecy that those who had ended up on the moon had been convicted for crimes very independent of their Movement membership, although they had been done specifically to get them up here. Each person had been arrested, tried and exported without their membership ever being discovered.

Stein knew that with what Scott Russell had told him, he had only days, perhaps hours, to find the advance team, for that was what they were, and to come up with a plan for seizing control of the platforms and the moon as soon as it was apparent that George had succeeded.