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A Letter from Home

From: George Waite (gwaite@waiteassociates.com)

To: Reginald Waite (rwaite@nasa.gov)

Subject: A Cause for Concern

I hope this message finds you well. I’ve hesitated to write to you about my concerns, since I know you have many responsibilities occupying your attention.

However, I think you should know this latest piece of news. I had been doing a little design work on the new construction at the Shady Rest Retirement Home, as much to keep myself busy as anything. This morning I had been scheduled to meet with the director to go over the final plans and sign off on the contract for the work.

However, just as I was ready to leave the house, I received a call from Mr. Markwalter, asking to postpone the meeting. Apparently they’ve been having some kind of illness going through their community the last several days, and he was concerned about my being exposed to it. I reminded him that I’d survived rolling a Jeep back in ‘Nam, and if that couldn’t kill me, a bug wasn’t likely to.

Mr. Markwalter was insistent, telling me that he was trying to minimize the number of people coming and going, for the protection of both the residents and potential visitors. We’re tentantively rescheduling our meeting for the first part of next week, hoping that this illness will have run its course by then.

I will keep you posted in case there is any more information of note. Your mother says to tell Steffi and the kids hello.

Take care.

Dad

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BOOK DESCRIPTION

Nobody foresaw our country’s collapse except for one man.

But why did that man have to be my father?

Mobs are looting and rioting in the streets.

My friends and neighbors are starving.

The store shelves are empty.

Money is worthless.

There are no jobs.

There is no food.

There is no hope.

And I’m tired of keeping secrets.

FROM THE PUBLISHER

TERRIFYING BECAUSE IT COULD HAPPEN TOMORROW…

The coming winter was going to be a bad one and not because of the weather.

Sixteen-year-old Barry Mortimer’s life turns upside down when his father suddenly moves the family from their comfortable modern home in the city to a decaying mansion on the outskirts of town. Strange and mysterious events follow.

Why isn’t anyone allowed to visit their new home? What is Father doing in the basement and why is he keeping it a secret?

As rumors of skyrocketing prices and food shortages become a hyperinflationary economic meltdown, Barry’s world crumbles. Can his family hold together as a nation collapses around them?

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Based on the devastating hyperinflation in 1920s Germany, Noah’s Castle depicts how a similar economic catastrophe might look in contemporary society.

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Narrative

An Unexpected Summons

Homework and lesson plans finished, Quinn Merton was going through his fan mail. Not that he got a great deal of it, but as DJ of the Full Moon Barn Dance every Saturday evening, he got a decent amount.

Most of it was more on the line of requests than girls going all cow-eyed over him. Which meant it was a good idea to keep up with them so he could have his playlist lined up well before the week’s show.

His phone dinged — incoming text. He looked over to see a message from Rick Sutton. “Can you come down to the spaceport? I have something I’d like to talk to you about.”

Quinn considered the implications. Whatever, it was, it had to be important — and something sensitive enough that his elder clone-brother didn’t want to discuss it over the telephone network.

Did it have to do with that cruise ship and all of Autumn Belfontaine’s mysterious phone calls and trips down to Medlab? If it did, Major Sutton would have plenty of reason to prefer discretion, especially after the way Spruance Del Curtin got called up to the commandant’s office after he’d been trying to sound out people he thought might know something.

And if it wasn’t, it was probably going to be something else that shouldn’t be noised about. Just text back a quick I’m coming and get down there.

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Hello Goodbye

The worst part about having a commuter marriage isn’t the times you spend apart. It’s when you finally get to see each other, and then you had to say good-bye again.

Brenda Redmond drew herself a cup of coffee from the coffeemaker in the music library, which doubled as a meeting room and staff lounge. At least these days you could get actual coffee up here, thanks to the expansion of the greenhouse farms to produce a wider variety of agricultural products.

Drew had flown in last night, right after supper, and by the time he’d gotten through with all the paperwork, it was almost time for bed. They’d hardly had time to talk before they both started nodding off to sleep, and the next thing Brenda knew, the alarm was going off to get her down here in time for her air shift.

By the time she’d be off the air, Drew would already be back down to the spaceport facilities, overseeing the loading of his lander with cargo to take back to Grissom City. Nothing to do but give him a quick good-bye kiss and hurry off.

And he got this flight only because someone else needed the time off. Then it’s back to his regular run, up to Luna Station and back down again.

Brenda tried to tell herself she should be grateful that at least he wasn’t getting assigned to the Scott, or worse, one of the Aldrin cycler spacecraft going back and forth between the Earth-Moon system and Mars. This way he could pick up flights over here now and then, even if he couldn’t get a regular assignment. Apparently the big bosses preferred having him on the more difficult orbital missions ever since his performance during the malware attack on flights inbound to Slayton Field.

Brenda was still mulling it over when a voice called her name. She looked up to see Cindy standing in the entrance.

“Hi, Cindy. What is it?”

Cindy joined Brenda on the sofa. “Any idea what’s with Sprue?” Her lowered voice suggested this was not a discussion for general consumption.

“What about him?” Although Brenda had a fair idea, especially after her father had taken her aside for a talking-to, she didn’t want to open that conversation only to discover Cindy was asking about something completely innocuous.

“He’d been dropping hints and asking questions for the past several days, and then bang, just like that, he stopped.” Cindy looked Brenda up and down. “I was just wondering if you had any idea what was going on.”

“I have a few ideas, but I’m not sure how much we want to be heard talking about them.” Brenda cast a significant look at the clock. “Right now it’s almost time for my air shift, so I need to be ready to be on.”

“Gotcha.” Cindy retreated back to her desk, leaving Brenda free to get to the DJ booth.

Yes, she’d picked up the hint that it might be possible to discuss matters later. Assuming of course something didn’t happen to knock everything sideways, like Autumn Belfontaine coming in here with breaking news that blew everyone’s speculations right out of orbit.

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Heart to Heart

All the way back from Innsmouth Sector, Brenda had been holding herself firmly in check. Much as she wanted to wrap her husband in a tight embrace, she knew that decorum must be observed. Even if he was wearing a NASA flight suit rather than uniform, Drew was still an officer of the US Air Force, which meant that public displays of affection must be kept to a discreet peck on the cheek, maybe a quick kiss on the lips after a long deployment.

And Drew had spent the last month and a half doing runs up to Luna Station. That meant he had to look right down on Shepardsport every time his lander docked to the station. To be able to see your family’s home from orbit must be even harder than having to sit at home waiting — especially since she couldn’t see the station with the naked eye unless she wanted to go up to the observatory, which was actually on the surface. Sure, there were plenty of feeds from Luna Station on the Internet, but avoiding them was easy. Just don’t point your browser anywhere that leads to one of them.

Now they were in the privacy of their apartment, and the children were already put to bed. Brenda had lowered the lights, hardly brighter than the telltales on the life-support monitor by the door. No room down here was ever totally dark, not on a world where every habitable volume had to be artificially maintained. But you could get things dim enough to create that feeling of intimacy that a couple craved.

Especially when you needed to talk about sensitive topics. Like all the weirdness that had been going on for the past several days, the bits of information mentioned in passing or overheard, especially when Autumn Belfontaine was taking calls. Sprue’s carefully oblique questions that suddenly ended after he got called up to the commandant’s office for a conference, at which point he became evasive about all his previous curiosity.

“Something’s going on, and for some reason they’re not even wanting us DJ’s to know about it. Ever since the news about that cruise ship came through, everything’s been tightened down in the news department. It makes me wonder what they’re hiding, and why.”

“Maybe hiding isn’t the best word.” Drew paused, considering his words. “That suggests an intent to deceive, and I don’t think we’re looking at that. And yes, I do know that there’ve been a fair number of developments on Earth that are being soft-pedaled up here. A couple of the guys in our unit have family that are in the health professions, so I hear a fair amount of stuff that’s pretty concerning.”

“OK.” Brenda wasn’t sure how much she wanted to try to draw him out. Although he might not work with secret materials, there were other kinds of things that weren’t for general dissemination. And given her line of work, he might have been specifically counseled by command authority to watch what he told her. “And you’ve probably been getting the same stern warnings we’ve been getting about the danger of spreading rumors, and how we should only follow authoritative sources.”

“In spades.” Drew gave her that dry laugh. “I probably shouldn’t have even been listening to the guys talking around the table at the Roosa Barracks dining commons. But you know how late-night bull sessions are. Stay too aloof, and you’re not a team player. And it’s not like I’ve got flights every morning, so there are a lot of times when I don’t even get that excuse.”

Make that definite — he knows something, and it’s really bothering him, enough that he wants to discuss it, but knows he shouldn’t.

Which meant she shouldn’t push him about it. Better to take the conversation to more pleasant matters — the children, her training and teaching responsibility. If Drew wanted to spill the beans later, he would. Appearing to pry would only alarm him and make him even more closed-mouthed.

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A Little History

Shepardsport Pirate Radio started almost by accident. It was right as the Expulsions were really getting started. A bunch of us kids were sitting around in the big lounge in Miskatonic Sector, talking about the situation. Somebody wondered aloud how many people down there realized that this wasn’t a voluntary exodus, no matter what the Russian tsar might have intended when he issued his invitation.

So it went from just another bull session to a very earnest discussion of how we could get the word out about what was really happening. [laughs] When you get older, it’s easy to forget just how passionate teenagers can be about something that matters to them.

One of the guys, I think it was one of the Sheps but it could’ve been a Cooper or a Conrad, pipes up with the idea of an underground newspaper. Not surprising, since we’d been studying World War II in history class and Mrs. Townsend was having us read a book about the various resistance movements, including their various clandestine presses and newsletters. And there was a really popular teen-lit book right then about a school with a dysfunctional administration and how the kids circulated a secret newsletter about everything nobody could talk about.

Of course we knew we weren’t going to be printing up a physical paper. That was so twentieth century, and up here on the Moon, copy paper was a scarce resource anyway. But everybody’s got a computer up here, and HTML’s not that hard to learn, at least enough to put up a credible Website. Lou Corlin and a couple of the other guys with work responsibilities down in IT said they could do the fancy CSS to make it look like a professional newspaper’s website.

That was when Autumn Belfontaine overheard us talking and dropped in to ask us just how much traffic we really thought we could get for a straight-up digital newspaper. There were millions of blogs and billions of static websites, and most of them could count their monthly visitors in the hundreds. We needed to be able to offer our audience more, something they’d come for the enjoyment and then listen to the news while they were waiting for the next entertainment segment.

That was when she suggested a pirate radio station. She’d actually worked in radio, so she knew how a station would be run. She probably could’ve been our general manager if she’d wanted the job, but she was a reporter first, foremost and always, so she decided to be the news director and teach the rest of us how to be reporters and DJ’s.

The more we talked about our plans, the more I realized there was going to be a lot more nitty-gritty than just scheduling or even coming up with funding to pay royalties on our music. We’d need a place to set up a studio, and a lot of equipment, not to mention access to the bandwidth to transmit it back dirtside, since there was no way we could do an actual airwaves transmission like the old pirate radio stations on Earth.

No, this wasn’t a lark us kids could do with a half dozen laptops and some cheap mics. We were going to have to get the adults involved, which meant that Autumn was going to have to somehow get the senior leadership convinced that we were actually doing something serious and productive.

And then Luna Station blew up and the Kitty Hawk Massacre happened, and all of a sudden Captain Waite was wanting to talk to all of us about getting the truth out.

Brenda Redmond, “The Beginnings of Shepardsport Pirate Radio” from The Lunar Resistance: An Oral History. Kennedy University Press, Carpenter Point, Tycho Crater, 2059.

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Narrative

A Warning Against Nosiness

Reggie Waite studied his younger clone-brother. “Good afternoon, Sprue. Do you have any idea why I’ve called you in here today?”

Spruance Del Curtin tensed, a subtle movement barely visible through his track suit. “No.”

Yes, there was a subtle hesitation, a drawing out of the negative particle with a little too much emphasis. Subtle cues, but easier to recognize in your own flesh and blood. Sprue wasn’t trying to falsely deny a definite positive. Instead, he was trying to brush away a multitude of possibilities.

“I was expecting that answer.” Reggie kept his voice mild, knowing it would keep Sprue wondering. “No doubt there are so many places you’ve been sailing a lee shore that you’re not sure which one’s the problem.”

Make that definite — Sprue had quite a few things on his mind. Now the question was whether to openly confront him about his pump people for information, or to leave things ambiguous enough that he’d might decide to tighten up on a number of things where he was playing fast and loose.

As Reggie expected, Sprue was far too cagey to blurt anything out. “It seems like someone’s always after me for something. One person’s unhappy that I’m not studying enough to suit them, and another’s complaining that I’m showing people up. It’s pretty hard to know what’s the real problem.”

“In which case, maybe you ought to do some serious thinking about just what you’re doing, and why it bothers people.” Reggie looked straight into his eyes. “Consider this a warning that some people are not pleased with your attitude, and things may go poorly for you if they do not see some change. Dismissed.”

Sprue managed to choke out something shaped like a promise to do better, then left in a little more haste than was appropriate. However, calling on him on a violation of protocol at this point would not be a good idea.

Still, they were going to need to curb his curiosity. That or bring him in on things, which would require being confident he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

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Teasing Out Answers

There was a trick to chatting up girls without crossing the line to actually hitting on them. It had taken Sprue some time to learn it, mostly because in his younger days he’d rarely had any need of the skill. If he was interested in a girl, he was going to want to hit on her, not just chat her up.

But right now the last thing he wanted was to have anyone thinking he was trying to hit on Cindy Margrave. Technically she was Betty Margrave and Carl Dalton’s niece, not their daughter, and had inherited none of the Shepard geneset. But Betty had taken in Cindy and her sister Kitty after their parents died in a freak accident, rather like Alan and Louise Shepard had taken in a niece, Alice. Because the girls had come up here as a part of Carl Dalton’s household, everyone was treating Cindy and Kitty as if they were members of the Shepard lineage, just like their cousins.

The first thing he had to have solid was his pretext for being at the station offices so early. It would’ve been so much easier if he could’ve switched air shifts with Brenda Redmond or Lou Corlin. However, neither of them had pressing business any time in the near future that would necessitate such a trade, and neither did he.

So here he was, getting copies of some logs, supposedly for his statistics class. “I don’t know why they’ve got Dr. Doorne teaching it, especially considering that she’s a radio astronomer and electrical engineer. You’d think they’d have her teaching actual astronomy, or maybe signal processing.”

Cindy set her tablet back down. “A lot of astronomy these days involves statistical analysis. Especially radio astronomy, since it’s almost entirely sorting through massive amounts of data and picking out the significant signals from a metric butt-ton of random noise. Or at least that’s what I learned in the astronomy overview class I took a few training cycles back. And down in IT we do a lot of work with astronomical data.”

Sprue considered how to steer the conversation towards a broader discussion of data, and then medical data in particular. Or at least interesting bits of data coming in from Earth, stuff that didn’t seem to fit with the pattern.

“Good morning, Mr. Del Curtin.” The deep, gruff voice could only belong to Ken Redmond, Chief of Engineering.

Sprue turned to face the older man. “Um, good morning.”

Ken stayed just far enough back that he didn’t obviously have to look up at Sprue’s greater height. “I believe you have some other place to be this early in the morning.”

Sprue recognized the warning in those words. Although Ken Redmond was not their direct supervisor, the station was considered to be part of Engineering for administrative purposes, and thus he had disciplinary authority over all its personnel. And Sprue had not forgotten what had happened when he ran afoul of Redmond in the past.

“As it happens, I really need to get this data sorted through in time for class tomorrow.” He turned back to Cindy. “I guess I’ll have to talk to you later.”

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Tete a Tete

Normally Reggie Waite preferred to call his department heads to his office for conferences. Having to come to one’s superior’s bidding and to stand within a space that was clearly his territory had certain desirable psychological effects on those who reported to him.

However, today he needed certain information which, in accordance with Federal privacy mandates, had to remain on certain secured computers. And those computers couldn’t simply be broken down and brought from Medlab to the commandant’s office.

So here Reggie was in Medlab, listening as Dr. Thuc went over an enormous amount of very technical medical information, mostly from the Glorianna, but also from two additional cruise ships that were reporting a fast-spreading illness. Although none of this material seemed to have actual patient names or other obvious identifying information, even this superficially anonymized data contained just enough personal information that sophisticated computers could correlate it to identify individuals, hence the security restrictions.

It made him recall Lovecraft’s words about the inability of the human mind to correlate its contents. Of course Lovecraft was talking about the little glimpses of horrors beyond comprehension, the evidence that humanity was not the first intelligent species to tread the Earth and likely would not be the last, and that far from being the crown of creation, humanity was in fact a very small fish in a very large pond. But it was a good point about how the mind didn’t really appreciate the significance of disparate data points and how modern computing technology could assemble them into a data-portrait of an identifiable individual.

However, what was important right now was the general data landscape created by the data in the aggregate. Of course there were still a lot of uncertainties, given that people got off and got on at various ports of call, and it was not always the same individuals. A lot of the turnover was crew, but these kinds of cruise ships did not run a simple closed-ended trip where everyone embarked at the beginning and disembarked at the end. Instead, they had open-ended cruises built from multiple legs between ports of call, and passengers could buy any number of those legs. It was common for this population of travelers to piece together an extended vacation by flying to one location, then traveling overland, say on a historic train like the Orient Express, then join a cruise at a nearby port of call and visit several other ports before getting off to either go home or continue their travels by other means.

Even with the level of uncertainty, he could see why Barbie Thuc was alarmed enough that she’d want to talk to him. This thing was nasty, and it spread like wildfire once it got into an enclosed space with a crowded population that had limited opportunities for going elsewhere.

Like a spacecraft or a lunar settlement. “However, we should have some degree of protection from the simple fact of distance. It takes three days to get from Earth to the Moon.”

“True, Captain.” It was a mark of the gravity of the situation that Dr. Thuc should switch to his Navy title when they were usually on a first-name basis. “And the risk of spreading disease in the space environment is why all space travelers undergo a fourteen-day quarantine. However, if we look closely at the quarantine process, it’s astonishingly loose, and almost entirely on the honor system. We both know how many astronauts, from the beginnings of the US space program to the present, have seen it as a challenge to slip out undetected for various excursions, typically to eateries and nightspots.”

Reggie’s cheeks grew warm as he remembered some of his own pre-flight extracurricular activities. “And who knows how well the space tourism companies supervise their clients’ quarantine periods. Most of them probably rely on the fact that these people have plunked down a cool million or two for their tour package, including pre-flight training, and will forfeit it if they’re booted for cause. But a lot of the super-wealthy get used to having money insulate them from the consequences of their actions, and let’s face it, a lot of the personnel in those companies aren’t paid so well that they’d laugh off a six- or seven-figure bribe to look the other way.”

“Which means we are going to have to think seriously about not only how this disease will affect our supply lines from Earth, but also what we are going to do to limit our own exposure and that of the smaller habitats that depend on us, once the inevitable happens and someone brings it to the Moon. Maybe someone who slips off the night before launch and doesn’t show symptoms until they’re in Grissom City.”

“Which is everyone’s nightmare.” Reggie pulled out his phone, began texting Betty Margrave. “I think it’s time time to get Safety and Security onboard with this.”