Apollo's Outcasts (18 page)

It took a few moments before anyone stood up, but I could hear townspeople quietly murmured to each other. Then someone near the back of the room raised a hand. He left it up while Ms. Fleming pointed a scanner in his direction; once she'd checked his identity by reading his wristband, she acknowledged him by saying his name. He got up and walked to a mike stand set up in the center aisle.

"Loren," he asked, "if we suspend helium-3 shipments to the US, isn't that going to take money from our pockets?"

"It will, at least for a while," Mr. Porter replied. "We estimate a ten to fifteen percent drop over a six-month period, if the embargo lasts that long. However, since we'll continue to provide He
³
and other lunar materials to the remaining ISC countries, we don't expect the shortfall to severely affect our profit margin over the long term."

Another resident raised a hand and approached the mike after the moderator pointed to her and said her name. "Have we received any word from Bill Sturges, the American ISC director, about the embargo?"

"Katherine, there's been no official communications from ISC's Washington headquarters since Lina Shapar took office," Mr. Porter said. "We're not sure what this means, but we suspect that all senior ISC officials in the US have been detained." The woman who asked the question stared at him as voices rumbled through the room. "However, Ronald Voss has assured us that he and the other European directors will stand behind whatever decision we make."

Another person stood up and started to speak immediately, but stopped when Ms. Fleming reminded him that he first had to be formally recognized. He apologized and waited to be identified and given permission to approach the mike. "Why does Lina...President Shapar, I mean...want us to send back Wilford's kid? Maybe she really does think we've kidnapped her."

Laughter and a few disgusted snorts greeted this question. Mr. Porter tapped his gavel, then let another council member answer the question. "If you'd seen last night's broadcast," he said, "you'd know that Ms. Wilford's testimony contradicts the White House allegation that President Wilford was assassinated by a PSU agent. No doubt the Shapar administration wants Ms. Wilford in their custody in order to prevent her from revealing the truth about her father's death. As for the second...you really don't think we're collaborating with Moon Dragon, do you?"

More laughter, and the guy who'd asked the question turned to shuffle back to his seat. Beside me, Hannah shook her head in disgust. "Can't believe anyone would think I've been kidnapped," she whispered.

I shrugged. "You never know. Some people don't..."

"Mr. City Manager!" an angry voice shouted from a few rows back. "Do you seriously think that Americans here should commit treason?"

Startled, I looked around to see who had yelled this. Not far from where Nicole was sitting, a heavy-set man with a shaved head stood up from his chair. Beside him sat Billy Tate; his arms were crossed, and there was an equally determined expression on his face.

Mr. Porter brought down his gavel again as Ms. Fleming glared at the man who'd spoken out of turn. "Mr. Hawthorne," she said, "you may address the meeting at any time, but you must be recognized by..."

"Answer my question, Mr. City Manager! You're proposing that we commit an act of treason against the United States, aren't you? What right do you have to force any American here to...?"

"Mr. Hawthorne, sit down!" Ms. Fleming's face turned red. "The floor has not recognized you!" She pointed to a hand that had been raised from the aisle just behind mine. "The chair recognizes Luis Garcia."

A short, muscular man with a salt-and-pepper mustache stood up and walked to the microphone. Mr. Hawthorne shut up, but he didn't sit down. "I'd like to address those last remarks, if I may," Mr. Garcia said once he reached the mike. Both Mr. Porter and Ms. Fleming nodded, and he turned toward Mr. Hawthorne. "Donald, with all due respect, no one here is suggesting that any American citizen here betray his own country. However, if you feel that strongly, I'm sure the town council would have no objection to you forfeiting your shares so that you and your nephew can take the next LTV back to Earth."

A few scattered chuckles from the audience. Donald Hawthorne scowled and appeared to chew his lower lip, but he didn't respond. Luis Garcia looked toward the rest of the room. "The actions undertaken and proposed by Loren Porter and the rest of the council are not directed against the United States or its people. Instead, they are directed against a president who has apparently assumed power through a
coup d'etat.
This same president has also detained individuals...fellow Americans, in fact...who've spoken out against her administration's intent to unilaterally claim lunar resources protected by international law."

"Hear, hear!" someone in the back row yelled. It sounded like Gordie, but I couldn't be sure.

Garcia nodded in his general direction and went on. "As Apollo citizens, it's our right...and our responsibility...to preserve those same resources for the benefit of all humankind, not just the United States...."

"You're going to be singing a different tune when the Marines land!" Hawthorne snapped.

Mr. Porter banged his gavel again. "Mr. Hawthorne, speak out of turn again, and I'll have the constables remove you from the room."

Hawthorne remained standing as Garcia turned toward him. "Donald, if Lina Shapar decides to send troops to the Moon, rest assured that my Rangers will be ready to meet them." He glanced at Billy as he said this, and Hawthorne's nephew looked down at the floor. "But resistance to injustice does not always mean having to take up arms and fight to the death. Sometimes it can simply mean standing in place...and refusing to move or be moved."

Applause erupted among the audience members and swept through the room. Donald Hawthorne sank back into his seat as Luis Garcia turned away from the mike. As he walked past Hannah's chair, though, he briefly laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Welcome to Apollo, Ms. Wilford," he said quietly. "Glad to have you with us."

Hannah gave him a grateful nod. She didn't say anything, but her eyes were rimmed with tears. Garcia caught me looking at him. A quick smile and a wink, and then he moved on. I had no idea who he was, but I was glad he was on my side.

After Mr. Porter tapped his gavel again, Ms. Fleming asked if anyone else cared to speak. She waited a minute, and when no one raised a hand, she told Mr. Porter that the town was ready to vote. The city manager read the proposition--that Hannah Wilford and her friends, my sister and I included, be granted political asylum and allowed to become Apollo citizens--and then called for a vote.

Looking over my shoulder, I watched as townspeople ran fingertips across the LCD screens of their wristbands. Apparently the measure had been transmitted to everyone; no show of hands, but rather a secret ballot. That must have been why Ms. Fleming checked the identities of everyone who wanted to speak; the council was making sure that any nonresidents who might have shown up for the meeting wouldn't be able to skew the vote. After a few minutes, Mr. Porter, Ms. Fleming, and another council member downloaded the ballot into their pads. The three of them studied the totals, checked the numbers they'd received against each other, and then Mr. Porter stood up to announce the results.

In favor: 732. Opposed: 209. Abstaining: 37. Absent: 22. The ayes had it; the motion passed.

And that was it. I was now a citizen of the Moon.

"Why walk when you can fly?" Nicole asked.

We were standing on the edge of a parapet overlooking Apollo. It was just below the bottom of the ceiling dome, about 300 feet above the crater floor, and we were about to jump off.

I tried not to look down, but couldn't help myself. The parapet jutted out from a guardrail-protected platform that circled the top of the crater and was normally used to inspect the dome. Just past its edge, the crater's interior walls sloped down toward Apollo's landscaped groves and meadows. The parapet didn't have a railing, so there was nothing to prevent a misstep that would cause me to make a long fall to the bottom.

Nothing, that is, except the paragliding suit I wore. It was a red, one-piece outfit, skin-tight and made of some elastic composite, with long, thin membranes that extended out from my arms and legs when I stretched them apart. The suit would let me glide upon thermal drafts rising from the solarium; wearing it, I would temporarily become an airborne hybrid of a human being and a flying rodent.

Yeah, right
, I thought.
Just call me Batboy
. Paragliding was perfectly safe so long as I followed instructions. Or at least that's what I'd been told. "I'm not sure if I can do this," I murmured, stepping back from the precipice.

"Sure you can." Logan was up there with us. He stood on the other side of Nicole and wore a suit identical to ours except in color: his was dark blue, while Nicole's was teal-green. All three of us wore helmets and goggles; small packs containing parachutes were strapped to our backs. "The first step is the hardest. After that, all you have to do is keep from falling."

Not funny. I gave him a sour look and he grinned back at me. Logan had already done this before, with Nicole as his instructor. I'd watched from below, and when they'd landed I'd told them that I'd like to try this myself. Big mistake; they took me seriously. So for the next several days, I'd taken afterschool lessons in paragliding when I wasn't sweeping walkways and emptying trash containers. I wasn't bad at it, but up until then I'd only jumped off a low balcony on Tier 1 with a padded mat as my touchdown point. This time was the real deal. If I was going to earn my paragliding permit, I'd have to make a 91-meter jump....

Who was I kidding? I wasn't really interested in paragliding. I was just jealous of the fact that Logan was spending more time with Nicole than I was. In fact, she was dangerously close to becoming his girlfriend. If I wanted her, then I'd have to show her that my best friend didn't have more guts than I did.

So there I was, about to do something crazy. Only a few weeks ago, my idea of risky behavior had been crossing the street in my mobil. And now...

"C'mon, Jamey." Logan was becoming impatient. "Jump already."

"Stop pushing him," Nicole said, then looked at me again. "If you don't feel like you're ready for this, then don't...."

"Oh, the hell with it," I said, and then I jumped off the platform.

The morning after the town meeting, I began to settle in. Maybe I was rushing things a bit--after all, only a couple of days earlier I'd arrived on the Moon--but I didn't want to sit around and wait for someone to tell me what to do. Neither did Melissa, but that was to be expected. Her boredom threshold was even lower than mine; besides, I think she wanted to meet some boys. So Ms. Lagler took a day off from her job at the comptroller's office and escorted us to those places in Apollo we'd need to visit in order to fully become citizens in good standing.

First stop was City Hall, a warren of offices on Tier 1, where a clerk took fingerprints and retina images from Melissa and me and added them to information embedded in our wristbands. The wristbands were redundant--our fingers and eyes were all that we'd need for the scanners that unlocked doors throughout Apollo--but since they also contained our comlinks and dosimeters, we were told to wear them at all times anyway.

We were also registered to vote. The minimum voting age was sixteen, and as Apollo residents we were expected to cast our ballots in all elections and civil referendums. That was as much of a surprise to Melissa as it was to me; until then, no one had ever treated us as adults or respected our opinions in matters of public interest. I walked out of the clerk's office feeling just a little taller.

With the right to vote, though, came an obligation to help the community. Our next stop was the Colony Service office, where another clerk had us press our fingers against a scanner before downloading into our pads a long list of job openings. The list ranged all the way from cleaning toilets and sweeping floors to spacecraft maintenance and aeroponic farming: something for everyone, regardless of age, gender, or skills. As Mr. Lagler said, there was no getting around this; Colony Service was mandatory, no excuses accepted. Not that MeeMee didn't try, but the clerk only frowned at her when she tried to cite a list of ailments and allergies--most of them imaginary--which would prevent her from working twenty hours a week. We were told that we'd have a few days to pick something from the list, but if we didn't volunteer for a job by the end of the week, one would be chosen for us.