Buried Deep Part 30

Well, actually, the freelancers' idea. They had recording equipment all over that ship, and they took it out of restricted Moon s.p.a.ce. They were going to interview Disty ships that were turned away, as well as get footage of those ships as they left.

If things worked out as both Bowles and the freelancers expected, they'd get some internal footage from the ship itself-face-to-face contact with whomever pa.s.sed for the captain of the Disty vessel being turned away.

Personal touches were so crucial on a story like this. Most people didn't realize that these ships contained dozens of lives. No one seemed to understand that those little pinp.r.i.c.ks of light above Sahara Dome's port had meant that Disty were dying at an alarming rate.

Bowles had been appalled at DeRicci's order to close the ports. DeRicci's action had confirmed her bigotry. She clearly didn't want more Disty here, even if it cost thousands of lives.

Bowles wasn't sure Ling had believed that side of the story until the order came through. He had a hunch that DeRicci's old partner was only saying these things out of jealousy or misguided hatred. Noelle DeRicci was a popular public figure, and Ling thought she deserved softer gloves. Until this.

Until the calls from someone in the Port Authority, questioning DeRicci's rights to restrict entry into Moon s.p.a.ce and to close down the port. And then there was that little message of protest from the train lines, again about DeRicci, wondering if she truly had the right to ask that no Disty be carried from Dome to Dome unless those Disty could show they had been on the Moon for the past week.

Other InterDome offices all over the Moon were getting those kinds of calls, mostly because no one knew exactly what DeRicci's authority was. Apparently, a few of the port administrators had tried to refuse the order, only to be told that they would breaking the law.

Bowles had an intern investigating which law applied. There were still very few Moon-wide laws. Generally, each Dome ran its own port and its own transportation system. And each Dome took care of its own citizens.

This was a mess, and Bowles was relishing it.

All except one part.

It had been relatively easy to think of the dying Disty in the abstract while the crisis had been confined to Mars. Then Bowles had prepared herself for the refugee story, willing to wade into crowds of Disty at the port, asking them how they would deal with the dislocation in their lives.

She had covered refugee stories before. They were always emotionally wrenching-children who seemed lost because they'd never been away from home, adults who were so frightened they could barely speak, and authorities who were just as frightened as they tried to figure out what to do with the influx.

She'd seen tent cities. She'd seen horrible overcrowding. She'd seen violence like none other in one of the refugee camps on Io during her days as a cub. But she'd never ever heard of a world unilaterally denying access at each and every port. Funneling people into one area, yes, she'd seen that. Creating ghettos for the refugees that had their own problems of air, sanitation, and privacy; she'd seen that as well.

But condemning dozens, maybe hundreds, to die in s.p.a.ce, unable to land? She'd never seen that.

She knew Earth wouldn't take them. Getting into Earth had been difficult for centuries now. The Disty might request refugee status on Earth, but they wouldn't get it. Earth often didn't let legitimate non-Earthlings onto the planet, humans with relatives there, Peyti with student visas, or Rev with work permits. Disty who had little or no identification, their only possessions what they had carried out of their homes, would have no chance.

That was why the Moon had become so popular with aliens and itinerant travelers, why the Moon's universities were getting interstellar acclaim. The Moon hadn't had that overarching central government that made silly unilateral decisions.

This change, which seemed to have snuck up on everyone, boded badly for the Moon's Domes. All that progress, all that tolerance the Moon prided itself in, had just vanished.

At the cost of hundreds of lives.

Bowles would report that. But she wasn't going to look at those ships more than she had to. And when the footage came in from the freelancers, she wouldn't look at the faces of the Disty trapped outside the Moon's restricted s.p.a.ce.

She knew from past experience that the dead stayed with her. She saw them in her dreams-the people she hadn't been able to save, the people her job forbade her from touching, from helping. She could report, but she couldn't become part of the story herself.

She could focus the story and point it in the right direction. Noelle DeRicci was the focus of this story, not just her inexperience, but also her ignorance. Combine those two things with unbridled power and a willingness to use it, and the result was visible on everybody's news links.

Ships hurtling toward the Moon's s.p.a.ce, ships that wouldn't get in. Ships that might hover there, waiting until someone took pity on them, or might go from place to place until their fuel ran out.

Either way, the occupants would simply be waiting. Waiting to be set free or waiting to die horribly, homeless, in the darkness of s.p.a.ce.

45.

Flint finally found several enclaves of survivors who had moved back into this solar system, apparently trying to get as close to their former homes as possible.

From the interviews he scanned, the messages that had somehow made it onto public boards, vid blogs that a handful of the young had done, the survivors believed no one remembered the ma.s.sacre here, and they might actually have a chance at living a peaceful life.

Not everyone felt that way-he still got an undercurrent of killing anger from much of what he saw-but enough had to venture within easy travel distance from Mars.

His office was dark except for the lights from various screens. He had turned the environmental controls on cold because he was having trouble focusing in the warmth of the afternoon. He had the sound off-the various reports coming in from Mars only added to his tension. His own links were down as well; all he had on were the emergency links.

The largest group of survivors was on Europa. They had come back to this solar system together after some kind of conflict in the Outlying Colonies. Something about this group of people seemed to anger the already established settlements-which was very unusual in the Outlying Colonies. Usually, they were tolerant of differences.

The Europa survivors hadn't lasted long as a group. After a few years, many of them went their separate ways-some to different cities on Europa, others back to the Outlying Colonies, and a few into deep-s.p.a.ce travel-going as far away as they could.

But then Flint found a note that intrigued him. Five survivors had come to the Moon. They had scattered, none going to the same city. He felt a surge of pleasure at the discovery, even though the move had taken place more than three decades ago.

Before he traced them, he looked at the other data his system had acc.u.mulated. There he found twenty more survivors or survivors' descendents who had ended up on the Moon. Most of the arrivals were within the past fifty years-and only one, a great-great grandson-had been within the last five years.

Flint didn't care about the descendents, so he selected his perimeters to remove them from his current database. Of course, he kept the information in case he needed it. Then he redesigned the searches on his other networks, seeing if he could trace the addresses of the fifteen remaining real survivors of the ma.s.sacre who, at one point or another, had lived on the Moon.

Two more hours later, he had the information he needed: An even dozen survivors of the ma.s.sacre still lived on the Moon as of last year. He verified names and addresses- making sure that private records didn't show other changes, such as deaths, incapacitation, moving to some sort of care center, or selling a home to a relative.

Within a few minutes, his list was complete.

His heart pounded, and he realized he had been breathing shallowly. He downloaded the survivor list into one of his unlinked information chips, then closed his eyes for just a moment. Step one-the hardest step-was done. The rest wouldn't be up to him. Someone else would have to convince these people to return to the scene of the most hideous event of their lives. Someone else would have to do the talking, and make sure that these people trusted them.

And someone else would get to ferry them to Mars.

Flint opened his eyes. On the wall screens, various images of ships superimposed over other images, all of the windows bleeding together thanks to the dark backdrop of s.p.a.ce. Only a few of the news reports showed Mars at all.

His stomach twisted, and he realized he hadn't eaten anything in hours. He wasn't sure he wanted to know how the crisis had expanded. He would take care of this, then maybe get back into the moment-by-moment details of the entire thing.

He used his most secure link to reach Sharyn Scott-Olson in Sahara Dome. She might be able to use their channels in Sahara Dome to put him through to people who could actually do something with these survivors.

But no matter what he tried, he kept getting the message he had gotten from the public links earlier: The links were unusually jammed, and he should try again later. One link actually told him that communications were down in Sahara Dome. He wouldn't doubt it, with everything going on.

But that didn't settle his problem. He now had a list of people who might be able to solve the Disty crisis, and he had no one to give the list to.

He had to find someone who could take action-and he had to do it fast.

46.

It took the governor-general three hours after receiving the emergency communication from DeRicci's staff to come to Armstrong. The council members for the United Domes of the Moon were on standby, waiting for the governor-general, who insisted on a personal meeting.

DeRicci no longer cared. She had spent the last three hours issuing orders, answering queries from mayors of various cities, and fretting about how to enforce the restricted s.p.a.ce law. Bluffing her way through the hierarchies of all the Domed governments had been easy; the problem she now had was that the United Domes of the Moon had no police force, no security team, and no military.

If she wanted to keep those Disty vessels out of Moon s.p.a.ce, she would need the cooperation of every Domed city with a port. Their own s.p.a.ce traffic control teams would have to take on the Disty vessels.

The Domes had agreements about which port controlled which section of Moon s.p.a.ce-and even had agreements for sharing burdens, should something go out of control. But no one had set up a fleet of ships that belonged entirely to the United Domes of the Moon.

So when the governor-general swept in without even an announcement of her presence, she found DeRicci staring at the wall screen, praying that none of the Disty ships would test the restrictions placed on Moon s.p.a.ce. Usually, DeRicci didn't believe in prayer.

At the moment, she thought it the only hope left.

"What is the meaning of this?" the governor-general snapped. Her delicate frame always surprised DeRicci-not because the governor-general was so tiny, but because she carried so much force. She wore dark pants and a black shirt, casual clothing by the governor-general's standards.

She put her hands on her hips and looked up at DeRicci. "You have no authority to do anything. You should have cleared this with us-"

"I tried." DeRicci said.

"Tried isn't good enough. You weren't given this position so that you could take over the Moon."

DeRicci made herself take a deep breath. If she lost her temper, she would never get the opportunity to make her case.

"You appointed me to keep the Moon safe," DeRicci said. "This Disty crisis is worse than you think: It's going to spread like a disease, and if it gets on the Moon, we're going to have the same kind of problems that Mars has."

The governor-general took a step toward DeRicci. She tried not to sneeze at the sudden overwhelming scent of the governor-general's vanilla perfume.

"I've been following the news on my links. I'm as informed as you are. Maybe more informed." The governor-general nodded toward the wall screens. "I've heard nothing about anything except some kind of refugee crisis. My aides have heard nothing except the refugee crisis, and the other officials in the United Domes have heard nothing except the refugee crisis."

"Have you spoken to the Disty?" DeRicci asked. "Or Sahara Dome? Or anyone connected with either? Because I have been gathering information and-"

"Save it," the governor general snapped. "All I've been hearing is your hatred for the Disty, and how you'll do anything to keep them off the Moon. And that's becoming quite apparent."

DeRicci felt like she'd been slugged. "My what?"

"Your hatred of the Disty," the governor-general said. "Don't deny it. I've seen the interviews, and actually went through the details of the case."

DeRicci felt like she had stepped into another world. "Case? Interviews? What are you talking about?"

"What everyone on the Moon is talking about, Noelle. You tried to prevent the Disty from disciplining some poor boy, and when that failed, your hatred of the Disty was cemented, proven, perhaps, by the way you handle other cases. Certainly proven by the way you've handled this crisis."

DeRicci had no idea where any of this was coming from. She wasn't sure how to deal with it.

"I honestly don't know where you're getting your information," DeRicci said. "I've been talking to Disty experts here and in the Alliance. What I'm understanding is that the crisis in Sahara Dome started with something the Disty call contamination, and it's not an easy concept to grasp. What happens is-"

"It doesn't matter," the governor-general said. "What matters is that you've created an out-of-control mess. I'm going to reopen the ports and-"

"No!" DeRicci grabbed the governor-general's arm, her fingers slipping on the silk sleeve. "You can't."

The governor-general looked at DeRicci's hand, then looked up at DeRicci's face. "You want to rethink this moment, Noelle?"

DeRicci didn't move. "You're going to have to listen to me. I don't know what kind of garbage you've heard about me. What I'm doing is protecting the Moon, which is what you've asked me to do. Yes, I know I've acted without authority, but someone had to. I told you this was an emergency three hours ago. The other members of the council have been standing by for the last two hours and forty-five minutes. If you'd had the courtesy to contact us, maybe all of this could have been avoided, or maybe you could have acted on this as a unit. But I had to do something before Disty ships got into Moon s.p.a.ce. There is a chance if they even enter Moon s.p.a.ce, we could be in trouble, and-"

"Let me go, Noelle." The governor-general's cheeks were flushed.

"No," DeRicci said. "You can call for help on your links all you want, but I'm not letting go until you give me an audience. We have to protect these Domes, and we're going to do it. You hired me because you believed in me, because you thought I would do the right thing. I am doing the right thing, even if I had to use unorthodox methods. Just give me the chance to explain before you jump to conclusions."

"The evidence they have against you on InterDome Media is pretty d.a.m.ning," the governor-general said.

Ki Bowles. Dammit, she found something and she was twisting it.

"No one ever contacted me," DeRicci said. "So right there, you can a.s.sume the reporting is biased, if I haven't had a chance to respond to the charges. Besides, hasn't anyone ever accused you of something you didn't do?"

The governor-general's head moved ever so slightly. DeRicci had scored a point with that comment.

"All right," the governor-general said. "You will tell me and the council why you have pitted us against the Disty, and you will do so succinctly. We have to have time to rectify this situation."

"By the time I'm through," DeRicci said, "I'm pretty sure the only changes you'll need to make are ones that give us some firepower at our spatial boundaries."

"Firepower," the governor-general repeated. "You actually think we'll shoot defenseless Disty ships?"

"This is life and death, Celia," DeRicci said, using the governor-general's first name as a weapon, just like the governor-general had used DeRicci's. "We're going to do what it takes to protect every single life-human, Disty, Peyti, Rev, it doesn't matter. Every single life on the Moon is our responsibility, and we have to take that responsibility very seriously."

The governor-general shook her arm slightly. DeRicci let it go. The governor-general ostentatiously rubbed the skin with her other hand.

"Call your meeting," the governor-general said. "You have exactly fifteen minutes to convince us you're right."

47.

Sometime during her examination of the work in front of her, Sharyn Scott-Olson shut the door to her office. As she went through Allard da Ponte's memoir, she almost felt like she was examining a forbidden doc.u.ment.

She kept her wall screens and news links off. But she had her personal communication links open. She expected to be summoned into the lab at any moment.

The deeper she got into da Ponte's work, the more she wished someone would summon her. She was beginning to understand why this incident had been left out of the history of Mars.

Da Ponte's memoir was a work of art. He compiled still photographs, drawings, composite vids, and other information throughout the doc.u.ment. He linked to various blogs and partial histories, and even made several vids of himself recollecting events-once under some kind of regression.

And he researched everything he had lived through, citing other sources, news reports, historians, and once-live feeds to doc.u.ment his claims.

After two hours of watching, reading, and following links, she was able to piece together something of a story: A hundred years before, Sahara Dome was a closed society. Founded by humans who mined the polar ice caps and shipped the water to new developments on Mars, Sahara Dome had become a thriving community of the miners' families and descendents, one that was surprisingly uniform in its looks, religion, and beliefs.

But the Dome's leaders believed that the Dome had to expand, and expansion required new capital. The only way to bring in new capital was to bring in new industry, which it did. Suddenly, Sahara Dome had money, and actually started expanding the Dome itself. Before the residents completed that job, however, they opened their port to off-world traffic.

That had been their first mistake.