Edge Of The Future Page 7

  ***

  Mark awoke not knowing if it was morning or evening. He’d lost all sense of time. Living in the underground base for a week, now again here underground on Luna. Sleeping, waking, eating—everything was out of sync. He didn’t sense the passage of time. His circadian rhythm was nonexistent. Maybe when he got back to work, he could establish a pattern, achieve a normal routine. He didn’t want to turn on a light, and wake Axel up, so he fished out his tablet, checked the time. Damn. 3:30 a.m. Sunday morning. Lunar time.

  If he couldn’t get up and go to work, he could still do research. Remembering his earlier discussion with Eva, he used the tablet to search the Terran military database for a roster of Lunar personnel that might be working on projects like theirs. He’d start with people they could speak with in person. Maybe branch out to friends or classmates back on Terra working in propulsion or aerospace engineering. Mark scanned through the names on the roster, searching for anything familiar. Eva Jackson wasn’t listed. Mark Warren wasn’t listed either. He tried accessing some classified material, checking to see if he still had clearance. He did. Neither he, nor Eva appeared on the personnel listing at CAMRI. They were missing. Persona non grata. Or, since the military had gone to the extent of relocating them, this could be the only way to keep them hidden. He recalled the CME’s. The solar flares probably disrupted the data stream. It was also a weekend. He now had several possibilities, all perfectly logical.

  Mark resumed his efforts. After a time, he found a familiar name stationed on Lunar 3. An old acquaintance from Grad school, Captain Zachary Pearson, who specialized in Astro Engineering. Mark sent a message to Zach, suggesting they meet for breakfast. He blind copied the message to Eva with his progress. After this slight bit of success, Mark drifted into a light snooze until Axel made waking noises.

  While Axel showered, Mark received a message from Eva. She’d been up early too, with similar results. They’d both made plans to meet with old colleagues for breakfast. Only her friend, Captain Dantrell Shepard, with a background in the propulsion field, seemed to be of the romantic persuasion. Mark smiled. This would be interesting.

  After Mark showered, donned his vest, uniform, and sidearm, they all left for the dining hall. The sergeants planned an agenda: breakfast, exploring, H2H and weapons training, with a free afternoon.

  Buttercup yellow assaulted Mark the minute he entered the cafeteria. Painters had overcompensated for lack of sun by a factor of ten in this room. Zach Pearson stood, signaling Mark from across the room. Same as always, tall, thin, short spiky hair, bushy brows. “I think I might be meeting an old associate for breakfast.” Mark’s comment brought evil-eyed looks from both sergeants.

  “Me, too.” Eva waved at her old friend, a brown-skinned, beefy type, with a shaved head, and a goatee. She motioned for him to join her as she followed Mark through the food line over to Zach’s table. The sergeants followed, one sitting alone at a table on either side; bookends.

  After the introductions, all four captains sat. Three ate while Zach sipped coffee and talked. “I know why you contacted me.”

  Mark looked up, pretending to chew so he didn’t have to say anything.

  “Yeah, man. I’m real sorry about your brother. Everybody in our field knew he was one of the crew on the Europa mission. Eric was a great guy. I know how close you two were. We still don’t understand how it happened. Honestly, I don’t have any information I can give you.”

  “Thanks, Zach.” Mark shrugged, spreading his hands. “We just arrived yesterday. I’m trying to find some people I know.”

  Zach sipped his coffee. “So, what are you two working on?”

  “Special project.” Eva pursed her lips together, shaking her head.

  “Okay. Got it. Classified. Well, there’s a lot of that going on. So you’re in good company. That’s why we’re all here, right? Research. The military gives us legitimacy. It looks good on a résumé. People respect you more for devoting a part of your life to the greater good. When your tour’s finished and you enter the private sector, you have rank, credentials, and a work history. Not to mention, the ladies love an officer in uniform.” He waggled his eyebrows. “It’s a win-win.”

  “We explored the Plaza yesterday.” Mark switched subjects. “I have no idea what’s on Lunar 1 and 2.”

  “Lunar Base 1 is strictly military. A whole company of hardcore armored badasses. Lunar Base 2 is Space Command.” Zach snorted. “Training for Pilots—space aces—more like space asses, flight crews, ground crews. We can’t go to either base. But they can come here. Lunar 3 is us, which includes military and civilians. Hell, there are even children here, so there’s a school, too. Mostly for the brass. Besides, there’s a moratorium. No pregnancies. No children born on Luna. Period. Besides, there’s a six-month rotation, so we’re all back on Terra in no time, and home free.”

  Zach stood. “Listen, it was nice meeting you guys. I’ve got to go. Contact me, Mark, if you want to do anything. I know where all the best stuff is.” He waggled his eyebrows again, smiled, left.

  Capt. Dantrell “Danny” Shepard was soft-spoken, bright, and still obviously attracted to Eva. She’d been discreet about steering their conversation around to propulsion. “Is there any news about the Europa mission? Have you heard anything?”

  Danny looked from Eva to Mark. “Well…maybe.”

  Chapter 7

  Mark assessed Shepard’s demeanor, waiting for a “tell” of some kind, indicating where this conversation was going.

  Danny pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket, and began folding it origami style, while he spoke. “Plasma engines are used on tugs for repositioning the orbiting space station, the spacedock, and orbital shipyard. These tugs also repair and service satellites, retrieve space junk, deflect asteroids, capture and reposition space rocks for mining, and resource recovery. The crowning achievement is that plasma engines are reusable, economical, super powered, and have no problems traveling to Mars, or the outer reaches of the solar system. I’m telling you they’re safe. There were no inherent problems with the Europa Mission’s propulsion system.”

  “Thank you, Danny. That was enlightening. Now, what about the “maybe” you alluded to?”

  “The NV-300 rocket core design is capable of operating in a thermally stable mode in the vacuum of space indefinitely, even with a three million-degree plasma exhaust. Again, I’m trying to convey a message here. Propulsion was not the cause of failure.” He squirmed a bit. “For a definitive answer, you might need to speak with someone in neuroscience.”

  “Really?” Eva kicked Mark under the table. “Umm…just how far are the outer reaches?

  “Neptune. Maybe even farther out.” He pushed the origami bird he’d fashioned while talking across the table to Eva. “Let’s get together sometime.” He winked at her, said his goodbyes, and left.

  Mark turned to look at Eva. Both wearing startled expressions.

  “Neuroscience.” Mark spit out the word as if it tasted bad.

  “B.C.” Eva covered her mouth as if she’d just cursed

  “I don’t want to say it—but I have to. In your wildest dreams, Eva, do you, for one minute, think that the Europa mission could be related to what happened at CAMRI?” Mark shut his eyes tightly, shaking his head. “No, damn it—don’t tell me. We have to postulate this separately, independently of one another. Given what we know, or think we know. You work it from your angle. I’ll work it from mine. I need to give this some time. Tomorrow, maybe. Okay?”

  Eva nodded.

  Mark could almost see the synapses firing in her brain.

  He wasn't ready to digest this now. He couldn’t think about this new information until he was alone, without any distractions, so he compartmentalized his thoughts and feelings, continuing as if this day were any other. Mark was good at that.

  ***

  After another exploratory stroll around the military perimeter of the base, they returned, changed into black exercise togs, set off for the gym.
At this point in the H2H training, Mark and Axel had reached a style facetiously called roughhousing, or horseplay, where both men actually laughed, at times, while being thrown or choked. Mark and Eric had engaged in this kind of wrestling since childhood, although Axel wasn’t near as fair, or forgiving, as Eric had been.

  They were all about to leave for the firing range when Mark spotted a familiar face. The guy with the wad of cash. The same man he’d seen yesterday wearing civilian clothes in the Plaza. Today he wore the requisite black togs while working out in the gym, so he had to be military, but no visible name or rank. He walked toward the exit.

  Mark signaled Axel it was time for a bio break and followed him. He caught up with him in the Latrine.

  “Say, didn’t I see you yesterday in the Plaza?” Mark splashed water on his face, busily washed his hands.

  “Yeah, mate. I was there.” The man had a slight Australian accent. He was shorter, sandy-haired, wiry

  . “I’m Mark Warren. Just got here yesterday. I’m looking for a good place to get a drink, maybe pick up a little action.”

  “The Starr Bar is a good place to meet the ladies. There’s live music on the weekends, too.”

  “Thanks, man. I was thinking more like—sports betting, or a nice friendly card game. I’ll go crazy up here for six months if I don’t have more than the ladies for recreation, know what I mean?”

  The guy took one step closer to Mark. He glanced back over each shoulder, scanning the empty latrine, and remarked, “Well, mate, there’s a lively little game most every night. First, you need to check in with Tiny at the Starr Bar. Five hundred cash buy-in.”

  “Thanks a lot, mate.” Mark clapped him on the back, and walked out to join his group on their way to the firing range.

  Mark Warren hadn’t drunk or gambled for the past week. He’d begun to feel like a monk. With luck, that was about to change. Early on, Mark learned he had a gift for numbers. While playing poker with his brother, he figured out how to count cards. Eric accused him of cheating. Mark thought of it more as a Divine Gift. Later, in college, Mark discovered he enjoyed gambling. And why not? He was good at it. Sometimes it was relaxing. Sometimes exhilarating. He invested his winnings in the stock market. Then he played the market, too. That’s how he’d put himself through Grad School. He was successful. Not to any degree that would cause notice. He kept it under the radar. He had enough—but not too much. The drinking began in high school. Sneaking out. Doing things he wasn’t supposed to. Normal teenage behavior. Except, when he gambled—he drank more. Since Eric’s death—it had even increased.

  He still didn’t want to think about the conversations from breakfast. He needed to clear his mind first. To get away from it all; the doctors, majors, colonels, sergeants, combat training, geolocator, not to mention being forced off the planet. Tonight he had a plan. Mark went to bed wearing his vest underneath his exercise togs, with everything else he needed stuffed under the bed. He’d waited until Axel rolled over, heard his shallow breathing, signifying REM sleep. He got up, pushed the pillow under his covers, grabbed the clothes, and snuck out the door. Easy peasy. Just like sneaking out of his parents’ house.

  Now, to find the Starr Bar. He went straight to the gym’s locker room, changed clothing, stored his exercise togs in a locker. The gun went into the small of his back, under his t-shirt, and new jacket. Weaving through the corridors toward the Plaza, he reasoned that if people had to be “vetted” to get into the game, where cash was necessary, someone there had to convert credits into cash. They probably charged a hefty vig, or fee, for doing it, too. Plus, if they were the House, supplying the location and the dealers, they’d be taking a cut of the games as well.

  Within minutes, Mark heard loud noises. They seemed to come from around the next corner. He turned. Yep, the Starr Bar. His clandestine plan was working. He eased through the swinging doors and blended into the crowd. It smelled boozy. He watched for a while, to get a general feel for the place. A tavern bathed in dim red light, with a heavy beat coming from loud music. Lots of ladies mingling, dancing, drinking. The sound of a bottle cracking, and a fight breaking out in the far corner. This could be a bar in Anytown on Terra.

  Mark zeroed in on a huge, long-haired bodybuilder type, who broke up the fight, then walked behind the bar. This had to be “Tiny.” He watched for a few more minutes before approaching him.

  “How's it goin'? I was told to ask for Tiny.”

  “That’d be me. What can I do you for?”

  “I was hoping to catch a little action.”

  “We got plenty of that out there tonight.” He motioned toward the dance floor.

  “I was hoping for a different kind.” Mark showed Tiny the card in his left hand. He picked it up with two fingers of this right hand, flipped it over, and placed it on the bar as if he were dealing cards.

  “You got ID?”

  Mark nodded, and placed his ID on the bar in the same fashion.

  Tiny leaned his elbows on the bar, hunkered down for a good look at Mark’s ID, compared it to his face. “It’s $500 to buy-in, with $100 for the foreign exchange fee.” He smiled. One upper-left canine tooth was missing.

  “Ready, willing, and able.” Mark nodded. “You have any Canadian whiskey?”

  Tiny walked away, returning with money and a bottle. He pushed five one hundred dollar bills in front of Mark, set a shot glass in front of him, filled it almost to the rim with a decent brand of whiskey, and rapped his knuckles on the bar twice—meaning the drink was free.

  A tug at his left sleeve caused Mark to look down. A child, no, upon closer inspection in the dim light, a small woman stood by his side. She had long, black hair and wore black clothing, so he had difficulty noticing anything but her face. Oriental.

  “Follow me, please.” She walked in silence through the bar toward the rear, turned left, went down a long hall, with another left into the gaming room. “Change currency for chips at the tables. Each one has signs for minimum and maximum bets. See the cashier's booth for converting chips to cash before you leave. Good luck.”

  Mark turned to view his surroundings. Hanging lanterns with tassels, painted dragons and bamboo trees on the walls. There were three tables, Blackjack, Lowball and Texas Hold ‘Em. The game runner, the guy in charge, another Oriental. The bouncer, a black belt ninja looking character. When he glanced back, the small woman had disappeared.

  He sauntered over to the Blackjack table, took the last seat, and pushed one bill toward the dealer. He played for about thirty minutes, carefully winning a several hundred. Not everyone drank while they played, but Mark did. He began to relax and enjoy himself.

  Next, he moved to the Lowball table. Most players don’t have the experience or discipline to win consistently. To be profitable, it’s a grind. He’d come on a good night. Late on a Sunday, last day of the weekend, when people were making bad bets trying to break even. He stayed until he won twice the amount as he had on Blackjack.

  Mark had been eying the last table, Texas Hold ‘Em, since he’d walked into the room. When a player left, Mark moved over to take his place. This was his favorite game. He could play it in his sleep. He continued drinking, though not too much, just enough to unwind. Poker is about playing your opponent, not your cards. He watched the other players, cataloging their “tells,” betting accordingly. When he held a Kings Full hand, three Kings plus a pair of Queens, he doubled down. He won, felt elated, and decided to quit. Mark casually walked to the cashier's booth, to exchange his chips for $8,600 cash. The scary ninja character escorted him out a different way than he had entered. On the outside, he stood in the same alcove he’d seen the night before.

  ***

  Axel was pissed. He just hadn’t thought it would be so soon. He commed Kamryn. “My captain’s MIA.”

  “Wow,” she whispered. “He lasted a whole day and a half. Amazing. Well, that means an ass-kicking for Blue-Eyes. Just don’t kill him—they’ll write you up for that.” She chuckled. “I’d like t
o go out, have a few, raise a little hell, too, you know. But nooo, I’m stuck over here with Miss Goody-Goody. Shit, Axel, you get to have all the fun.”

  “I’ll comm you after I’ve put him to bed.”

  “You’d better. I want to hear all the gory details.”

  He donned the vest, black leathers and stuffed the gun behind his back. Axel could contact Petra back on Terra. Have her track Mark’s geolocator, tag the coordinates and send him the data. He could do it almost as fast by himself.

  Axel knew Mark drank. His blood alcohol level had indicated as much the afternoon he tackled the cyborg. He decided on a quick trip to the Plaza to check the bars. Wouldn’t be many open at this hour. Axel jogged in silence, passing few people as he maneuvered through the passageways. Sound carried in an enclosed area. Axel heard the music before he reached the mall, dimly lit now because the retail stores were closed. He slowed to a normal pace, cut across the mid-section, and veered toward the noise.

  Before he entered, someone snagged his attention about a hundred feet farther down; tall, blond, dark blue jacket.

  Gotcha!

  This was almost too easy. Axel backed up to the wall, watching Mark walk away, then turn right. He started after him.

  Three more men filed out of a nearby doorway, following the same path.

  Uh-oh. Axel charged after them. He slid to a halt, peering around the corner. About ten yards down, those same three men held stun batons and had Mark surrounded. They were ready to have a party. With Mark as the prize.

  Axel snuck up as close as possible before they noticed. “Oh, there you are, Sweetcakes. I can’t leave you alone for a minute.” He strolled over to Mark, flung his left arm over his shoulders, and murmured, “Did you miss me, honey?”

  The leader, a scary-looking guy, moved forward swinging his baton. “Oh boy, twofers.”