Confrontation: Volume 3 of the Darkside Trilogy

By William Hayashi

Imagine a confrontation of epic proportions that takes place around the globe and across the solar system, with the most powerful nations on earth on one side and a community of a few thousand people on the other.

The Darkside Trilogy is born of the headlines of a generation and a tale nearly half a millennium in the making, with Confrontation bringing the story to its inevitable climax.

Confrontation concludes a story that began with a series of mysteries around the globe and ends with the entire planet forced to confront its obsession with killing and the consequences of refusing to change a global culture steeped in self-destruction.

When the needs and wants of politics and corporate greed intersect, compromise and criminality often follow. In most cases, there is little consequence for such crimes committed against the people. But what would happen when the people can not only fight back, but actually win?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514404201

William Hayashi

WILLIAM HAYASHI concludes his epic tale with the final installment of the Darkside Trilogy, closing out a never-before told tale reminiscent of the amazing speculative fiction of Michael Crichton and the plots twists of stories from Robert Ludlum. Hayashi is a lifelong Information Technologies professional. He began his career as a programmer in the early 1970s, and has operated his own IT consultancy for over thirty years. Hayashi’s writing includes award-winning screenplays. His seminal movie script, written for the Chicago leg of the 48 Hour Film Project competition in 2009, won for Best Script. His next three scripts were produced and filmed, and has a feature film scheduled for production in summer of 2016. A Chicago native, Hayashi continues his philanthropic work in designing, building and maintaining not-for-profit computer training centers in the city’s underserved communities. Hayashi is developing a computer and 3D printer manufacturing plant to be built in Chicago’s Englewood community, providing hundreds of technology-based jobs for area residents.

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Copyright © 2015 by William Hayashi.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 09/28/2015

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CONTENTS

Preface

Introduction

Chapter 1:   Solitary Man

Chapter 2:   Good Vibrations

Chapter 3:   We Can Work It Out

Chapter 4:   Lovely Day

Chapter 5:   Under Pressure

Chapter 6:   Stand By Me

Chapter 7:   Strangers In The Night

Chapter 8:   Our House

Chapter 9:   Games People Play

Chapter 10: If You Want It, Here It Is, Come And Get It

Chapter 11: Treat Her Like A Lady

Chapter 12: Changes

Chapter 13: Nothing From Nothing

Chapter 14: Mea Culpa

Chapter 15: Fantasy

Chapter 16: You Can’t Always Get What You Want

Chapter 17: Smiling Faces

Chapter 18: Spaceman

Chapter 19: Daytripper

Chapter 20: We Are Family

Chapter 21: Ride Captain Ride

Chapter 22: Watching And Waiting

Chapter 23: It’s Too Late To Turn Back Now

Chapter 24: New Day For You

Chapter 25: Pathway to Glory

Chapter 26: Where To Now St. Peter

Chapter 27: Suspicious Minds

Chapter 28: Time Has Come Today

Chapter 29: Go Down Gamblin’

Chapter 30: Right Place, Wrong Time

Chapter 31: Burning Bridges

Chapter 32: Bad To The Bone

Chapter 33: Way Back Home

Chapter 34: Colors

Chapter 35: Riders On The Storm

Chapter 36: Work To Do

Chapter 37: A Walk In The Night

Chapter 38: Nitty Gritty

Chapter 39: Fight The Power

Chapter 40: Unfinished Business

Chapter 41: Woke Up This Morning

Chapter 42: Won’t Get Fooled Again

Chapter 43: Back On The Block

Chapter 44: Don’t Call Us, We’ll Call You

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Dedicated to the wonder of imagination,

and all of life’s what could have beens

PREFACE

So, The Darkside Trilogy is complete. Some three quarters of a million words later (I really should work on that brevity thing) the saga has come to a good landing point even though as in life, the lives of the characters go on.

Along the way, life has changed for me as well. Surprisingly, I have been honored for my writing, something I did not expect, at least not before the trilogy was complete. Florida A&M honored me with an invitation to be a panelist for their 7th Annual Spring Literary Forum. There have been invitations to forums and panels on the AfroFuturism movement, a term and movement that I had no knowledge of when I began to write. And, I was characterized as an AfroFuturist before I ever knew the existence or definition of the term.

So, wanting to know what I was being characterized as (accused of?), I looked it up and found a definition that stated that Afrofuturism is a literary and cultural aesthetic that combines elements of science fiction, historical fiction, fantasy, Afrocentricity, and magic realism.

Darkside began as my foray into writing science fiction in the same vein as the science fiction authors from the Golden Age. I was reading Asimov, Heinlein, Herbert, Clarke and countless others well before I was in high school. I was also enamored with Victor Appleton’s Tom Swift series and the writings of Madeleine L’Engle as a preteen. The first movie I remember seeing in the theater was Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea. My father was a fan of science fiction and had a subscription to Analog Science Fact & Fiction (Now Fiction & Fact) as far back as I can remember, and I always grabbed each new month’s copy to read when it came in the mail before he got home from work.

Since those early days, I have been a serious fan of science fiction primarily because it dealt with that what if factor. What if we met beings from another civilization on another planet? What if they came here? What if telepathy and empathy were far more prevalent than we find today? What if our civilization became an oligarchy and money ruled … oops, that one came true. But in all this reading, I never gave a thought to writing a sci-fi story, let alone a book or series. I won’t rehash the whole story of how I came to write Darkside. But it came about when I thought of what I believed was a great ending to a story, then sat down and wrote about 330,000 words to get to it; yes, that brevity thing again.

Discovery was really only going to be a stand-alone novel, but less than halfway through writing it I realized that the full saga would take several books to tell, and I loved reading those authors who wrote broad, expansive series; Foundation, Robots, Dune, Rama, Midnight at the Well of Souls, Dragonriders of Pern. To follow known characters from volume to volume was a joy because I got to live with them, sometimes for years.

It is my hope that Darkside will be that kind of joy for readers everywhere. For those who have gotten this far and have enjoyed the story, rejoice. There are seven volumes in the entire Darkside saga, a total of two trilogies and a seventh volume that winds up the tale.

14 August 2015

William Hayashi

INTRODUCTION

Read the next paragraph, stop and try to imagine what would come next in today’s United States of America:

If an African American think tank came up with the secret means of controlling gravity and doubling the life span of man, and the U.S. government caught wind of it, what would happen in this day and age?

This was the genesis of the story arc of The Darkside Trilogy. If you’ve read the first two installments, then you know how the story began. Confrontation takes little sociological, political or military license in concluding this tale.

Yes, Darkside is speculative fiction. And yes, Darkside is just one person’s vision of the world in which we all live. But given the headlines today, it’s quite obvious in what low regard America holds black lives. And if blacks in this country had the secret of gravity-based propulsion, or the medical knowledge to double the life span of man and wanted to keep the information strictly for the benefit of African Americans, what could we reasonably expect to happen to them in America? This is the essence of Darkside with one caveat: this time African Americans can say no—and make it stick.

For those who have not read Discovery or Conception there are spoilers ahead.

The elevator pitch for the series is: The Darkside Trilogy tells the story of what happens in America when the country finds that African Americans have been secretly living on the back side of the moon since before Neil Armstrong arrived. The story was crafted using the closest possible predictions of causality given America’s current culture.

To have boyhood friends form a bond that, among other things, fostered the invention of gravity manipulating technologies that enable them to steal NASA’s march to the moon was too good to resist. And to have these same boys grow into men who have had enough of the daily slights, so many horrific murders almost daily for simply being black, to dream of moving somewhere where they can live without molestation or death is a perfectly reasonable premise despite what one reviewer on Amazon said of Discovery.

First and foremost, Darkside is a speculative fiction drama with deep science fiction roots. The story was written in a similar vein as stories from the Golden Age of science fiction. The goal was a story of epic proportions, with believable characters that one could meet most anywhere in the country. There was also a requirement that the characters be the kind of African Americans who simply don’t exist in the American lexicon: educated, middle class, and with no criminal record. These are the kinds of people who were all around me as I grew up, people of so many races, from a myriad of locations across the globe and from all levels of social and financial strata in the Hyde Park community in Chicago.

However, after all is said and done, hopefully people find the characters, and the entire story, compelling.

Chapter 1

SOLITARY MAN

Former detective John Mathews was still quick on the draw, only now it was with the handle of the tap of a domestic microbrew or an imported dark. He let the head foam up, his precision in the pull preventing any of the thick foam from spilling over the side of the tall glass.

There you go. Can I get you anything else, Tom? he asked.

Nope! That’s just perfect, John. How’s the crowd been tonight? the new regular inquired.

Slow, but steady. I think the change in barometric pressure is keeping them away, it feels like it might rain any minute.

Probably right. I just needed a couple of tall ones before I head home, said Tom, a twice-a-weeker, as Pete called them.

Pete’s Place, a staple of the elite jazz and blues lovers in the Atlanta area, boasted the most sophisticated sound system in the state. To spend any time in Pete’s was to have a live music experience without the benefit of any musicians. The sixty speakers, a whole wall of expensive power amplifiers, and the advanced, computerized digital sound system was an audiophile’s dream.

To have the sounds of live jazz and blues without the overhead of musicians was a value proposition Pete appreciated every time he did his monthly profit and loss statement.

John, a middling computer jockey at best, appreciated the evening-long playlists Pete had the good sense to assemble for the times when anyone manned the bar in Pete’s absence.

John knew he would never acquire the same encyclopedic knowledge of the thousands of selections stored on Pete’s music server, but his own love for jazz was a point of convergence in their shared interests. Truth was, he didn’t even have a sound system of his own at home. His music hardware consisted of two clock radios, one in the bedroom, one in the kitchen.

As a cop, he never had the time to devote to a hobby like music. He even had an older tube television with the government-sponsored digital converter box so he could pick up the local sports broadcasts; no cable or satellite service for him. He always considered it whenever one sport or another went into their playoff season, but he never followed up on the notion.

Now that he was no longer employed by the Atlanta Police Department, his hours were skewed from starting work in the morning to beginning late in the afternoon. Sports had lost their primacy in his life, except for reading scores in the newspaper.

Ten years ago his life was very different. As the lead missing persons detective on the Atlanta force, he faced investigations of teens gone missing instead of working a high-tech music system. But that was before the astounding discovery of a colony of African Americans secretly living on the back of the moon.

Tasked with trying to uncover the whereabouts of a missing local black co-ed, the focus of John’s investigation turned out to be a college administrator who ended up leaving Earth to join that mysterious group of black separatists on the moon.

The resulting investigation into his involvement with Dean Sydney Atkins turned his own life upside down for over a year. The countless times he was interviewed—or interrogated as he characterized it—served no real purpose except to single him out as the lightening rod for all the frustration and humiliation an embarrassed government felt toward someone for having been shown up by a group of blacks leading a hidden existence.

The FBI’s embarrassment from having overlooked the disappearance of more than 2,000 blacks who vanished over more than three decades, manifested itself in their all-but-shouted accusation that John had known about the role that the dean of student affairs at Steddman College played recruiting women for that secret group.

Admitting his romantic relationship with Dean Atkins served no other purpose than to provide a hammer with which his own department and the FBI used to try to beat a confession of conspiracy and guilt out of him.

The bitterness festered and grew until John had had enough. He hadn’t planned on falling in love, as he fully believed he had done with Sydney Atkins. She disappeared from the Atlanta area only to be listed as one of the members of the group of space-based separatists, and was now somewhere out past the orbit of Mars, while he was literally stranded on Earth.

He stuck it out on the police force as long as he could, but eventually it was made clear that he had lost the confidence of his superiors, despite the quality of his work.

His fellow officers knew the experience had left John withdrawn. He couldn’t be enticed back into the activities he had participated in before, the ball games, friendly card games or just that drink after the day was done. It was as if the departure of Sydney had also taken a vital spark of life from him. He was still the most effective detective in the missing persons department, but the constant assault on his honesty and integrity took its toll.

He waited until the very hour of his twentieth year of service arrived, then resigned to collect a modest pension and flip the bird to those superiors responsible for the continuous scrutiny of his every move.

Having been driven out of the police force and up the wall sitting around the house with nothing to do, his good friend Pete invited John to hang with him at the bar. Their relationship had begun with the commonality of both serving in Vietnam years back. John even helped Pete install the grand sound system when Pete purchased the joint, although John’s major contribution was to hand Pete whatever tool he pointed to throughout the renovation of the bar.

He never regretted leaving the police force, happy in the knowledge that neither they, the FBI nor anyone else were ever going to have the satisfaction of using Sydney against him again. As far as he was concerned, his involvement with her and the rest of the former missing persons began and ended when she drove away from his house in the rain that night a decade back.

* * *

Unbeknownst to John, he actually did have a direct connection to the separatists; he had a ten-year-old daughter living in the space colony.

The final time John had seen Sydney Atkins, he was standing on his lawn in his undershorts in the pouring rain, watching Sydney’s car zoom off after they had made love for the very first—and last—time.

As he was tending bar at Pete’s, Sydney was raising their daughter, Joy, as a single parent in the separatists’ space habitat beyond Mars’ orbit. With a community totally dedicated to the support and nurturing of their children, raising a child as a single parent had no stigma for parent or child, and in the colony, no child was ever left behind.

I don’t want to study right now, I want to play with my friends, Joy said with just a hint of a pout on her face.

Sydney had heard this refrain too many times to count and knew that it was just a token bit of resistance done out of habit. She smiled and gave Joy a hug.

Really? You mean to tell me that you don’t want to play with Genesis? I thought she was your best friend, sweetheart.

Is she really a girl? Joy asked, not so easily mollified.

We’ve talked about this over and over. Genesis is anything you want her to be. And you know as well as I do that your friends love the fact that they can do their schoolwork at home just by calling her up, said Sydney.

But she’s not a real person. I want to work with a real person today!

Okay, Joy. Let’s see who’s teaching math today, shall we? Then you can decide whether or not to stay home and do your schoolwork. Genesis? Sydney called out.

Yes, Sydney. How may I be of assistance? the colony’s artificial intelligence replied.

Joy has a question for you this morning.

Good morning, Joy. How may I be of assistance?

Who is teaching math at school today? asked Joy with no hesitation at all.

"Does this mean that you and I will not be having the opportunity to work on your assignments today? I will miss doing so. Both Lilith and Stephen are scheduled to teach math classes for those who attend school today, Joy. Lilith has a new interactive presentation she wrote for your grade level on algebra that I think you will enjoy. She is scheduled to begin class at ten o’clock this morning.

Would you like me to inform her that you will be attending? Genesis inquired.

Joy looked at her mom for approval, the excitement of seeing her favorite teacher’s presentation clearly evident.

Can I go, mom?

If that’s what you would like to do today, of course. Are you planning to stay in school all day? asked Sydney.

Of course! I’m going to call everyone so we can all hang out there together, Joy said as she skipped out of the kitchen, going to her bedroom to make the calls.

Thank you, Genesis. It looks like you lost them for today, said Sydney.

That is quite all right. Her school work is several years in advance of children her age on Earth. And she appears to have a very positive relationship with all her teachers.

How was her science homework last night?

It was perfect, and that was without any prompting or assistance on my part. If I were to make a guess, her interests are very much in line with those of her uncle, Peanut.

Sydney laughed at the A.I.’s observation, more so for Genesis having actually said Uncle Peanut than for anything else.

Thank you, Genesis. That will be all for now.

Joy came running out of her room, her data pad slung in its case on her back.

Whoa there, Sport. Be sure to get a good lunch today, you hear? said Sydney, giving Joy a hug.

I will! See ya later, mom! said Joy over her shoulder as she raced out of the apartment.

Sydney shook her head, marveling how everything about her life as a mother was so normal in light of the fact that they were living millions of miles from her own planet of birth.

The thought of Earth brought a bittersweet touch of sadness to her as it reminded her that Joy and her father were never going to meet and get to know each other, and that the difference in the color of her skin and John’s was the only reason why.

* * *

So, John, anything new with you? Tom asked, after draining a third of the brew.

Not really. Same shit, different day. You?

Some shakeups at work. Probably some shuffling around of people, some in, some out, answered Tom.

That’s right, you work for one of those big conglomerates, right?

Global Space Technologies.

That’s right, GST. They’ve taken over the supply and maintenance runs to the International Space Station. They’re also one of the two firms that send supplies to the moon for those navy SEALs stranded there, right?

When NASA retired the shuttle fleet, only the Russians had the capability of resupplying the station. There’s a bunch of entrepreneurial companies, as well as a couple of the industrial multinationals, who decided to go the private enterprise route into space. GST’s one of the best.

I guess opportunities are everywhere these days, said John.

They are. The next thing now is the race to get out to the belt to try to meet up with those folks from the moon. So far GST and NASA’s Project Jove looks like it’s going to make it out to the belt first. Still kind of hard to believe, a whole colony of Americans, black at that, living on the moon for decades and no one knew? Amazing, he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

John was silent, nodded and then moved to another patron at the other end of the bar.

Tom watched him walk away, trying to gauge John’s reaction to his casual mention of the separatists. He was looking for anything that would hint at how much John knew about the group, or any unusual interest in the subject at all.

Tom Weston wasn’t just some mid-level functionary at GST, he was the global head of security. Over the last ten years he had taken on the task of investigating every clue, every person who might have unpublished knowledge of the people in the colony or their work before they had established their facility on the moon.

He had used the staggering lobbying power and financial resources of the conglomerate to pump elected and unelected officials who served in President James Bender’s administration. He followed the financial lives of those same people to see if any unexplained largess had been bestowed upon them once they left government service.

Tom had put hundreds of high-level African Americans in government and industry under surveillance in an effort to determine if any of them had been in contact with, or had secret knowledge of, those listed in the final message transmitted on every cable and satellite channel when the moon colony left for the asteroid belt.

To date, GST had spent billions of dollars following up every possible lead to obtain any information whatsoever on those people. It was only recently that classified information, locked up in the most secret files of the FBI, about John’s true relationship with Sydney Atkins had been breached.

Wanting no possible mistakes with this line of investigation, Weston decided to personally conduct the research and surveillance on former detective Mathews.

For several months, Tom had been dropping into Pete’s on Tuesdays and Thursdays almost as regular as clockwork, putting in the occasional Saturday or Sunday just to vary the routine.

He even went so far as to have John’s email account hacked and monitored, in addition to the normal surveillance of all phone calls and postal mail.

As he knew John’s every movement, it was no problem to align his visits with John’s usual evenings on duty.

When John returned to Tom’s end of the bar, he brought another beer, knowing his patron’s habits.

Thanks John. I won’t tell you to have one on me, but how about an iced tea?

You know something, that would go down pretty good about now. Thanks. He grabbed a tall tumbler, scooped some ice into it, and poured from a pitcher kept in the cooler. Adding a sprig of fresh mint and a straw, John clinked glasses with Tom and drank.

That does hit the spot. What you said earlier, do you really think any of the three or four top-tier space technology companies and governments are seriously considering a trip out to those folks, and expect something other than a cold shoulder in response? John asked casually.

Hell, yeah. I mean, look what they did! From the scientific reports that have been made public, they have mastered the control of gravity. That capability alone would revolutionize transportation right here at home. Imagine, trains that didn’t use fossil fuel? Hell, they wouldn’t even use tracks; no infrastructure needed except stations and right of way.

You know what I would want if we had that kind of technology available? Tom asked.

No, what’s that?

I want to have a George Jetson flying car.

John laughed. Yeah, that’s gonna work. Can you imagine the kinds of midair collisions in places like Florida? Shit, most people can barely drive in two dimensions, let alone three. You wouldn’t be safe anywhere except in some underground bunker. Your house could be smashed by a falling car, your apartment could become an unintended drive-through; forget about it, John said, taking another pull from his glass.

Okay, I haven’t worked that out yet. But the possibilities are endless.

Sure they are. But I keep going back to that last message they sent. It seemed pretty cut and dried about them not sharing any of their technology with anyone from Earth. It seems to me that if we do get any of those technologies, we’re going to have to do it on our own, John observed.

Maybe, maybe not. You never know, people change.

John nodded his head in agreement. However, behind his smiling countenance was a mind honed by years of successful detective work, especially in the fine art of interviewing suspects. He was now alerted to the fact that there might be a hidden agenda in Tom’s having brought up the subject of the separatists in the first place.

Just maybe some sort of dialogue could be started with them. Once your company puts together the technology needed to get out that far, who knows? said John.

I hope you’re right. But whatever the top brass are thinking about, especially with their relationship with NASA over the last decade or so, it’s way above my pay grade.

You said you work in security. Isn’t it part of your job to protect the plans and technologies of the company?

"Me? At my level? We’re more concerned with people who take home office supplies, make personal long distance calls on the company’s dime or check out online porn on company time. Sometimes I feel like an overpaid school security guard. But the pay is stellar!"

Sounds like the job’s a keeper.

It’s not bad. The Atlanta offices at least afford me the opportunity to hang out in places like this. Not too sure how long they’ll let me stay. I asked to be permanently posted here, but since I sometimes have to train staff on things like, oh, log off your computer when you go out to lunch or when you freaking go home for the day, it’s hard to say where I’m going to be sent next! You have no idea the excitement I face every day on the job, Tom said, laughing.

Doesn’t sound too terribly bad.

Well, it’s nothing like being a cop like you were, right?

John was looking right into Tom’s eyes as he asked the question. And saw nothing but normal interest.

Actually, as a missing persons detective, there was a lot more leg work than actual danger. Pretty boring in fact, John answered, now almost certain Tom was on a fishing expedition.

I guess. Anyway, Tom began, as he drained his glass, I’ve gotta run. Early morning seminar about securing your company smart phone. That means not installing apps for your kids on the same phone you receive the corporate email or access your bank account. You have one of those smart phones, John?

John reached into his pocket and pulled out a flip phone approaching ten years old.

Tom laughed and reached out to shake John’s hand. You are something else. ’Til next time… .

Take it easy. Don’t be too hard on them tomorrow.

John watched Tom leave the bar, unable to decide for sure whether he was being played. Shrugging his shoulders he decided to bag the internal debate and get back to work.

Though he never said anything about her to another soul, not a day went by that John didn’t have thoughts about Sydney Atkins. Pete knew. Special Agent Samuels of the FBI knew. After all, it was Samuels who assigned John to investigate Jaylynn Williams’ disappearance in the first place, which brought John and Atkins together.

Meeting Sydney was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and it spun him around like nothing had before. His measured, reserved protections against the pain and disappointment in finding those he was assigned to locate, people hurting, people trapped by horrible circumstance, people who, through no fault of their own, ended up losing their way, normally would have protected him from such an unexpected emotional whirlwind.

With every fiber of his being, John felt he would never love again. Sad, perhaps. Extreme, definitely. But the last thing he needed was some corporate nosey-body dropping in on him at his shitty job to remind him of the greatest loss in his life; he had done what he still believed was right in letting her go. He tried not to feel sorry for himself, he had been around the block enough to know that shit happened. But sometimes, every now and then, he was also aware of his burning anger over the whole situation. An anger at a woman who could express an abiding love for him, make love to him, then moments later leave forever.

John would give his life to find out what was happening with Sydney in the asteroid belt. At best, she was over fifty million miles from earth; most of the time it was much farther than that. In any case, he still had a hard time accepting she was lost to him forever.

He was going to be extremely vigilant the next time Weston visited the bar.

* * *

Much had changed on Earth in general, and in the United States in the 10 years since the separatists had taken their entire installation out of the lunar bedrock and sent it to the asteroid belt.

President Bender’s authorized mission to send SEALs to the moon yielded bitter fruit at every turn. There was almost universal condemnation by other countries, the US and Russia bearing the brunt of the international ire.

The fact that an armed SEAL team was sent, then stranded on the surface, couldn’t be spun in any positive way to give the US cover.

The SEALs had taken shelter in one of the separatists’ surface installations, supplied with air and water. The surprise of the century was finding the actual Apollo 13 lunar lander and the damaged service module just inside the inner airlock door, looking exactly like a museum exhibit. At the time, it had been assumed that both burned in the Earth’s atmosphere prior to the astronauts’ safe splashdown. When they informed mission control of the fact, NASA and the US military went wild speculating on just how the Separatists had pulled off that feat.

Four of the SEALs had pooled everyone’s remaining oxygen so they could return to their escape pods and strip them of everything useful. All of the extra supplies, oxygen bottles, rations, the radio transceivers and anything else that could be detached went on two sledges and hauled back to the installation.

When the SEAL team members toured the lunar installation they found the source of oxygen—algae and grass—atmosphere-purifying hardware, and an intact kitchen. They also found connections to a high-gain antenna on the surface, to which they attached their own communications gear.

Electrical power was plentiful, and ran the few devices left behind, including that fully functional kitchen. However, there was no furniture and several larger rooms were equipped with broad swaths of grass underfoot.

In what looked like a locker room for the previous residents’ space suits, there was a built-in air compressor, and an oxygen extraction unit. It didn’t take long to fashion a threaded sleeve to attach their own suits’ oxygen bottles to the equipment to top off their own air supplies.

On Earth, NASA scrambled to find some way to supply food to those stranded soldiers. The lead SEAL, CPO Pritchett, took it upon himself to try consuming some of the algae left behind in the abandoned hydroponics department. With no ill effect other than a complaining stomach looking for something more substantial, the rest of the team also consumed the water-borne plant life in order to sustain them until Earth could make a delivery.

Ten years later, seven of the original eight were still alive, Seaman Greenfield having died from sepsis brought on by a burst appendix.

They received shipments of food and other supplies dropped to the surface in the same manner as their own trip to the surface. NASA also put up a polar-orbit repeater satellite allowing the men to maintain regular communication with Earth.

NASA, as well as the entrepreneurial companies taking advantage of government subsidies allocated for investment in space technologies, had increased man’s presence in Earth orbit, but had yet to develop a craft capable of landing on the moon and returning to Earth. Their focus was on an extended mission out to the separatists’ space stations in the asteroid belt.

Secret instruments, developed by the US military to track gravity-based anomalies, showed the single installation that had left the moon was now joined by at least four others employing the same gravity-controlling technologies. Though detectors on Earth could locate gravitation anomalies throughout the solar system, scientists were no closer to duplicating the separatists’ technology than they had been a decade before.

Martin Harris, Ph.D., was still the world’s leading researcher in gravitational studies. His detector was the preeminent investigational tool in the study of gravity and the detection of the gravity-based technologies the separatists used to extract and lift their habitat from the moon and propel it out past the orbit of Mars. His unique detector had been replicated in two other underground, military-controlled installations. The devices were a closely-held secret that, so far, U.S. allies knew little to nothing about.

The details about the secret group of African Americans who had been living on the backside of the moon were eventually released to the public. There seemed no point in holding anything back, since the separatists had transmitted a roll call of their group to the entire world. Everyone also knew the details of the highly visible mission to the moon, which had pushed NASA space shuttle technology to its limit.

The inevitable leaks about the mission, its crew complement, and the navy SEAL team that had been transported to the moon went public in the most spectacular way when technicians in Japan decoded and rebroadcast the SEALs’ camera and audio feeds from the moon to the rest of the world.

Everyone on Earth wanted to know as much about the lunar inhabitants as possible. It was former Detective Mathews’ misfortune to have fallen in love with one of the last members to join the inhabitants on the moon.

The intervening decade that passed since the discovery of the separatists fostered a number of changes in national and international priorities. And though the excitement and the public’s demand to know everything about those remarkable American blacks had cooled considerably, what hadn’t changed was demand for the marvels those people had at their disposal.

The capabilities of the spacecraft that had picked up Sydney Atkins from the outskirts of Atlanta and an unknown person or persons out on the waters of Massachusetts Bay were unprecedented, the stuff of science fiction. Leaked reports from the FBI lab that had analyzed the foot of a member of the lunar inhabitants who had met with a deadly accident flying in the Middle East demonstrated that the members of the lunar community were not aging at the same rate as normal human beings. From all indications it appeared they would live far longer than their earthbound cousins.

The fact that they were living out where humans had never gone before was a constant reminder of just how far America and everyone else on earth was behind in science and technology. The more paranoid members of the world’s governments feared any direct confrontation, assuming that the separatists’ weapons technologies were equally as advanced as the rest of their equipment. There wasn’t a military in the world that wasn’t lusting after the wonders they imagined in possession of the separatists.

The separatists control of gravity was at the top of the list of technologies earth was most anxious to get their hands on. The cost of lifting a pound of anything out of earth’s gravity well was the most limiting factor in further expansion into space. Thousands of top-level scientists and physicists world wide were shifted to gravitational studies to try to duplicate the observed characteristics of the Separatists’ spacecrafts.

But none of this was of any interest to John. Not only did he know where Sydney Atkins was headed the night they parted, he was responsible for stalling the FBI search for her, giving her the needed time to make her escape.

The sad irony in the whole ordeal was that he and Sydney could never be together because he was white.

Chapter 2

GOOD VIBRATIONS

The takeoff from Los Angeles International Airport was as smooth as it was familiar. Patrick Jensen had been back and forth between LA and Houston more times than he could count. On most flights he spent the time working on his laptop. He had an extremely heavy workload as head propulsion engineer for the combined Global Space Technologies/NASA outer solar system spacecraft.

This trip he had to forego the work on the laptop because he had a seatmate in first class who could have seen his screen, so he contented himself with catching up on some reading.

Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but notice you’re reading that technical journal. Are you some kind of scientist? asked the very pretty, blond woman seated next to Patrick.

Not really. I’m more of an engineer. Are you interested in science? he asked, more than a little flattered at the attention.

Not me. But my brothers were always building models of airplanes and rockets when they were growing up. One of them works for Boeing doing something in design, she said. By the way, I’m Melody, Melody Parker.

Putting down his magazine, he stuck out his hand and said, Patrick Jensen. Nice to meet you. You fly often?

Melody laughed. No, I was visiting a sick friend in LA, now I’m going back home. I live in Houston. Is that where you’re from? You don’t really have the accent.

No, I live in California, but I’m relocating to Houston. My job’s requiring it.

Really! Are you going to be looking for a place? Maybe I can help! Melody said excitedly.

You think so? How’s that?

I’m a broker with Carson Real Estate. Do you have someone looking for a place for you yet? she asked hopefully.

"Not so far. They only told me they wanted me there full time a few days ago. Maybe that would work out," said Patrick, weighing the prospect of getting to spend more time with her.

Melody looked him over, evaluating what kind of home or condo she would pitch to her new prospect. He wasn’t bad looking, kind of thin, early to mid-forties, maybe six feet tall. The glasses made him look somewhat nerdy, no, more like studious. His clothes were neat, not overly expensive, but flying wasn’t exactly a tuxedo affair. She decided that she could do worse, maybe a dinner or two to see what this Patrick Jensen was all about.

They ended up talking for the remainder of the flight, exchanging mobile phone numbers in the process. Melody promised to give Patrick a call in the next two days, saying she’d have a few prospects for him after learning he was looking for stand-alone home.

When the jet landed, the two chatted until the rest of the passengers deplaned, then walked together to the baggage claim area. When they parted, each felt they had made some kind of connection, leaving both anticipating their next meeting.

In the limousine taking him to the Johnson Space Center, Patrick caught his reflection in the driver’s rear view mirror and saw he was grinning like a fool. He pulled his sunglasses from his breast pocket and put them on, trying to turn his thoughts to the work ahead.

He pulled his phone from his pocket, turned it back on and waited for it to connect to the network. He was happy to note that he had no voice messages, but cringed when he noticed fifty-three email messages waiting for his attention. With a sigh, he started paging through the messages, figuring the more he got done en route, the less on his plate for the fully booked afternoon of meetings.

Patrick was startled when someone tapped on the window next to him. Once he rolled it down a security guard said, Your identification, sir.

Looking past the guard he saw the Johnson Space Center sign.

Sorry, got distracted, he said as he fumbled for his NASA ID.

Thank you, sir. One moment please.

The guard went to the booth and called in Patrick’s ID. He returned in a couple of minutes and said, Welcome back, Mr. Jensen. You know the drill, have the driver take you over to reception and someone will pick you up and take you to engineering from there.

Patrick thanked him and sat back in his seat, seeing that the driver apparently knew where he was going. He was pleasantly surprised when he saw someone sitting in a golf cart at the entrance. The driver stopped in front of the welcome center, got out, opened the door for Patrick, then retrieved the bags from the trunk.

The young man sitting in the golf cart approached Patrick with his hand out. I’m Lucas, I’m an intern here and I’ll be taking you over to the engineering complex, he said, as he watched the limo driver transfer the bags from the trunk to the back of the cart.

Shall we go, Mr. Jensen?

Sure. You new here? I haven’t seen you around here before.

About eight months. I’m here from Stanford on an internship that winds up in four months. I’m here working on inter-solar navigation.

Sounds interesting. You like it?

It’s all right. But your stuff, the design and construction of the GST probe, that’s epic!

We’re supposed to say NASA/GST probe, Patrick said, winking.

I know, but everyone knows that without the billions in cash and technology from GST, it wasn’t going to happen.

Yeah, you’re right about that.

The two rode the rest of the way in silence to the building where Patrick had spent a large portion of the previous seven years, designing and supervising the construction of the ship in orbit’s propulsion systems. When they arrived, he thanked Lucas for the ride and grabbed his bags off the cart.

Inside the lobby the receptionist had a cart waiting for Patrick’s luggage and, once everything was settled, swiped his ID badge, checking him into the building.

I’ll have your bags brought to your office, Mr. Jensen. Dr. Milton asked that if you have a few minutes, could you stop by his office, she informed him.

No problem. I’ll head upstairs and see what’s up. Thanks.

Patrick was somewhat in awe of Dr. Paul Milton, who had served on the special presidential commission a decade past when the separatists were discovered living on the back side of the moon. He worked with the notables on that commission, like Norma Lancaster, the discoverer of the inbound ice asteroid that had crashed on the surface on the moon. An asteroid, largely consisting of frozen water, that the moon colonists apparently used to provide water for their habitat. Some hotshot astrophysicist, Dr. Martin Harris, who was acknowledged as the world’s expert on gravitational research; unfortunately he hadn’t been able to duplicate the gravitational technologies of the separatists. Milton had even managed to work directly with the president of the United States at the time, a relationship that survived even today.

That commission was the precursor to the project that had completely taken over his life for the previous seven years. Project Jove was the most ambitious manned space effort by NASA to date. And yet it was so woefully short of the technological achievements of the African Americans who built a city below the lunar surface. NASA’s efforts, even with the massive infusion of cash and resources of GST, were like fielding a Boy Scout’s Soapbox Derby car against a Formula-One racer.

Patrick had spent countless hours and a stack of GST’s money to perfect an ion powered propulsion engine capable of getting the massive Jove spacecraft out to the asteroid belt and back to earth quicker and more cost effectively than any previously used rocket technology.

When he arrived at Dr. Milton’s office, Patrick knocked twice on the open door.

Come in, come in, Milton said, when he saw who it was. He rose and came around his desk to shake hands with Patrick. How was the flight in? Everything go smoothly?

No complaints. I had a delightful conversation with a woman who sells real estate here in town.

That’s great, and timely too. I can’t tell you how much more productive the project is going to be with you here full-time. As soon as Jove is powered up and has life support working, maybe I can talk you into taking a trip up to see what you and your team have created.

Patrick laughed. At least it’s not being built by the lowest bidder. And thanks, but no thanks, I’m just fine down here.

We’ll see. What I wanted to talk to you about was that I can have relocation services help you out finding a place. I’m sorry no one thought to put you in touch before now.

Thanks, Dr. Milton. But I want to see how things work out with this woman I met on the plane.

Cute, was she?

Patrick blushed, nodding in response.

Okay. We booked you into the same hotel where you usually stay. Keep me posted on this prospect, er, real estate agent. I’m going to grab something to eat, you want to join me?

Can’t. Gotta get some things squared away before we meet with the rest of the team. I’ll catch you later.

They both left the office, going down the hall in the opposite directions.

* * *

Melody! You’re back. How’s your friend? asked Ginger, her cube mate at New Century Real Estate.

She’s much better, answered Melody, hanging her sweater on a hanger dangling from a hook on the cubicle wall. Anything happen while I was gone?

No, but Brad gave me a stack of files for you to go through. Kind of helping you learn the ropes around here.

It was very understanding of Brad to let me keep my job. I was here what, two days and I had to leave? Melody said, shaking her head.

True, but I think he likes you, Ginger said, smiling slyly.

Maybe so. Anyway, I think I may have struck gold on the flight back.

Really?

He was kind of cute in a shy sort of way. Anyway he’s looking for a house to move into. He’s from California. Can you help me find three or four properties? Melody asked.

No problem. Any idea of his budget?

No, but let’s start around $500,000 and maybe go up to a mil, she suggested. He’s some kind of engineer. He dressed nice and he was flying first class. Although I guess he could be using his miles.

Hope for the best, Melody. Getting a sale right off the bat would be great; Brad would really love that! Ginger gushed.

Fine. Give me a hand picking out some houses. I’ll bet this Mr. Jensen will be pretty impressed if I have something for him by tonight, Melody said as she fished Patrick’s business card out of her purse.

No problem. Here, I’ll show you how to log onto the system and search for properties. Our system’s home grown, but it’s the best in Houston. It’s never more than a few hours behind the market. We have interns entering new properties and filtering out those that are sold every day.

Melody rolled her chair over next to Ginger’s and the two began the computerized search for a few likely homes on the market. After an hour’s worth of work, Melody grabbed a stack of printouts from the office printer and stuck them in a folder.

Giving Ginger a quick hug, Melody said, Thanks, hon, these are great. I owe you one!

No big huhu. It was a pleasure. Besides, you picked up the system in no time. I’ve got a couple of things I want to catch up on, so I’m staying a little late. You go ahead. If you see your man tonight, I want details tomorrow. You hear?

Deal. See you in the morning, Melody said as she pulled on her sweater and bolted, the folder of pictures and printouts under her arm.

* * *

Ms. Parker, I had no idea you’d be getting back to me so quickly, Patrick said, fielding her call in his NASA office.

I wouldn’t be a very good agent if I just let things lay around instead of trying to meet the needs of my clientele as quickly as possible, now would I?

Patrick laughed despite himself. Good point. I’m glad you called in any case. I’ve had wall-to-wall meetings until now. I’m ready for a bite to eat.

Is that an invitation, Mr. Jensen?

Patrick, please. I don’t want to sound forward or anything, but I imagine you eat, right?

I could do with something myself. I barely had time for lunch getting back into the swing of things at the office. I did have time to pull five homes for you to take a look at. Could we make it a working dinner? she asked.

That would be fine. Where do you suggest? I spend most of my time at the Center or eat in my hotel when I’m here. I still don’t know Houston well at all. I have access to a car and my phone can guide me anywhere.

I could go for a steak. How’s that sound to you? asked Melody.

That would be fine.

Then can you find your way to Russell’s Steak House?

No problem. How about 8 P.M.? Patrick asked, checking the time.

Perfect, just enough time for me to get out of my traveling clothes and into something fresh. I’ll see you there.

Patrick logged off his workstation, stood up and stretched. He called down to reception and asked for the fleet automobile assigned to him be brought around front and that his bags be put into the trunk. Downstairs the security guard tossed Patrick the keys to the car parked out front and waved him off, letting him know that he’d already been checked out of the building.

When Patrick finally exited the main gate, he checked to see if he had time to go to the hotel and change. Looking up the location of the restaurant on his phone, he saw there was just enough time.

When he arrived at the hotel, letting the valet know that he would only be a few minutes, he realized that he wouldn’t miss staying there at all. As a matter of fact, he was quite looking forward to having his own place. Although a house was more than he had ever had to himself, it symbolized putting down roots and committing to not only the mission, but to the NASA community as well.

Now, if I can only get someone to make up my bed every morning at the house, he thought. At least he was realistic enough not to go off on any flights of fancy about his new real estate agent.

Did you have any trouble finding this place? Melody asked when Patrick arrived and found her already seated.

Not at all, he replied, giving her the once-over.

She had changed into jeans and a nice blouse, showing off a modest amount of cleavage. Patrick was quite smitten by her appearance, but his normal caution and shyness kept him from remarking on her looks.

Great, I’m starving. I also brought you a few selections to look at once I get some food in me. I can be a real bear when my blood sugar gets low, she warned, smiling.

Uh, sure. What do you recommend? he said, picking up the menu, beginning to scan through the offerings.

I like their rib eye, with sauteed mushrooms and the garlic mashed.

That sounds great. Maybe with a salad, he said.

Get whatever you want, it’s on the company dime since you’re a hot prospect!

I can’t accept that, I invited you, said Patrick, holding up his hand and shaking his head.

Don’t be silly! It really is part of the job. And I did bring you some houses to look at. If it makes you feel any better, I won’t require you to sleep with me later in return, she said, watching Patrick blush a deep red.

Seeing that she may have pushed a little too hard, her face turned serious and she added, I’m sorry. I hope I haven’t come off badly. It’s just playful banter. After all, we did have a great conversation on the plane, and I thought you had a good sense of humor. Maybe I went too far?

Patrick laughed nervously. It’s not that. It’s more along the lines of not having someone who looks like you chasing after a guy like me. I know it’s all in good fun, I’m not a prude or a child. Please, continue. Honestly, it’s flattering.

"Well good! I am serious about finding you a home, though," she said picking up the folder from the seat next to her and putting it on the table.

Fortunately, the waiter arrived to take their orders, giving Patrick a moment to regain his composure. By the time the waiter collected the menus and left to get their drinks, Patrick was anxious to move the conversation into safer waters.

Okay, now that that’s out of the way, what kind of houses did you think I might like? he asked.

You didn’t tell me your price range, so I have five prospects here in the city from about five hundred thousand up to a really tony house sitting on a three-acre lot for one point one mil.

Melody opened the folder, separated five pictures from their descriptions, and handed them across to Patrick.

Patrick looked at each picture for a few moments before moving on to the next. After he had checked them all out, he handed them back and asked, What’s up with this one on top. It looks pretty nice and I like the lawn. What’s the floor plan look like?

She pulled the spec sheets and floor plan from the folder, handing them over.

He looked over the information, liking that all the rooms were on one floor, but the home had a full-sized basement too.

This looks nice. Is there anyone living there now?

She shook her head and said, No. It’s been empty for almost a year now.

Is there something wrong with it? Why’s it been on the market so long?

"There’s a glut of homes for sale. Some repossessed, a few are left behind by their owners hoping to get out from under what they owe because their mortgages are more than the homes are worth. A very small percentage were new construction in developments that either didn’t sell or the sales fell through.

If you have time, I can take you through the place tomorrow or the next day—well, anytime really. Whenever you’re available.

Patrick was silent as he went over the information again, looking closely at the photos.

How much is it to keep up a pool like this? You know, heating, cleaning and such?

I’m not really sure. Someone in the office will have a better idea, but I’ll know by tomorrow.

The waiter returned with their drinks, promising that their food would be on its way shortly. Putting aside any further discussion of the house, they continued getting to know each other.

When the meal came to a close, dessert finished and Melody having paid the bill, she caught Patrick trying to conceal a yawn.

How about I call you tomorrow? We’ve both had a pretty long day. Does that work for you?

Somewhat relieved, though maybe a little disappointed that he wasn’t going to have to navigate the ins and outs of a burgeoning intimate relationship, Patrick nodded as another yawn overtook him.

The two walked out of the restaurant together, and gave their valet tickets to the doorman. They chit-chatted until Melody’s car pulled up to the curb. She leaned in to give Patrick a quick hug, promising to call him before noon to set up a time to go through the house.

As she drove off, her lingering scent brought a smile to Patrick’s face as he allowed himself to briefly consider the prospect of becoming more than just friends.

Unfortunately, the next day he was buried under a complete overview of the Project Jove spacecraft’s status and never had the opportunity to think about a new home.

The spacecraft, the most ambitious space construction project in the history of NASA, was so large it was easily visible by eye from earth’s surface as it orbited overhead. The ship was designed in three discrete modules: the living quarters for the crew, a massive supply module also containing life support machinery, and the propulsion module.

The ship looked for all the world like a massive, slightly misshapen Apollo command and service module. The forward portion of the ship contained the control cabin. It looked very much like the command capsule of the Apollo spacecraft wearing a spare tire around its middle. Just aft of the forward section was the crew module, and immediately behind the crew quarters was the storage module, carrying oxygen, food and water for the astronauts, as well as spare parts for the mission-critical components of the ship. At the rear was a large fuel tank and the cluster of engines that would push it out past Mars.

The crew compartment was designed to carry a maximum complement of twelve, split between mission specialists and what were being called ambassadors. The eight specialists were responsible for getting the craft out to the solar system’s asteroid belt and back to earth safely. The other members of the Jove crew were still being worked out. They would be tasked with contacting the former lunar inhabitants, opening up a working dialogue with them and then perhaps negotiating any possible concessions that could be had.

The Jove mission was designed to be strictly scientific and diplomatic, in other words there would be no military components included, the US government having learned a harsh lesson from the ill-fated SEAL team mission to the lunar surface.

The worldwide backlash from that effort to confront the black separatists with an armed invasion was still being felt a decade later. Even America’s staunchest supporters had turned a cold shoulder to their ally. The only country that had not succumbed to the nearly universal condemnation was Russia, which had provided logistical support to the armed mission in the first place and had their own diplomatic collateral damage to deal with.

The separatists’ spectacular departure from the moon, and subsequent travel toward the inner boundary of the solar system’s asteroid belt, had disheartened a world obsessed with finding out how that remarkable colony had remained hidden for four decades. How had a group of American blacks managed to carve out such a technologically advanced existence in such an inhospitable place?

The roll call of the lunar colony’s inhabitants, sent to the entire planet in a defiant screed against the racist deprivations of a culturally sick America, was