Ali stared at Scotty, and then laughed uproariously. “You are an elf! And a bodyguard as well?”
“Yes, and a Luny. I’ve been around.”
Ali’s eyes widened. “You’ve been to the Moon? And you know gaming?” Scotty watched the kid’s gears spin. “Perhaps… perhaps you are not an anchor after all. Father,” he said, “I would like to have breakfast with this man. Will you leave us together to talk?”
Kikaya smiled approval at Scotty. I think you will do fine, that expression said. He shook Scotty’s hand, and said in a low voice, “Please. He is my only son. Convince him. Protect him. Please.”
They locked eyes for a moment, not monarch and commoner, but two men with a common interest: the health and safety of a boy. “If I take the job,” Scotty said, “he’s safe. I promise.”
“Take the job, Mr. Griffin,” Kikaya said. Then nodded to his son, and left the room
Ali and Scotty faced each other without speaking for a moment, then the boy said: “Have you ever had an ostrich omelet?”
“Never.”
“Our chef makes them with little fish from Lake Victoria, garnished with a local onion found nowhere else in the world, and forbidden to export. Will you join me, Mr. Griffin?”
Scotty smiled. “Only if you’ll call me Scotty.”
“Yes,” the boy said. “Scotty. And you may call me… Prince Ali.”
A pause, and then Ali broke into laughter, and Scotty followed. And at that moment, he decided he liked the kid, and would take the job.
8
October 10, 2085
In any modern society, privacy is one of the most prized commodities. This was as true on Luna as anywhere else. More so, perhaps, as every spoonful of water or breath of air was produced or managed by a central processor, and every human being was tracked at all times.
As a result, the ability to promise secure communications between Earth and Moon was a lucrative business, birthing a half-dozen communication streams boasting high-level encryption and guarantees of hack-free voice- and facemail.
Doug Frost sat in his cubical, enjoying the fruits of such privacy. But even with guarantees, the current communication was conducted with coded language and careful tones.
The face on the screen was a man’s. Then it shifted and became a woman’s. The skin tone shifted to black, and then Asian. As it did, the vocal tones shifted as well. There was simply no telling who or what a “Shotz” actually was. Frost’s sources speculated that he was a man, but there was no way to be certain. All they knew beyond question was that a person known as “Shotz” was Shotz, leader of a group called Neutral Moresnot, the most successful practitioners of a very specialized criminal profession. Kidnapping had been big business for hundreds of years, and the Moresnot group was reliable, conducting twenty high-profile extractions a year, usually leaving little trace, and always demanding high fees.
“You have received all data?” Doug said.
The Chinese woman on screen smiled. Was that a real interpretation of Shotz’s mood? He had no idea at all. “Yes.”
“And were there any last-minute concerns? I’m not certain why you requested this unscheduled conversation.”
“It has to do with a passenger list,” Shotz said. “Of course, we would be interested in anyone traveling with our… person of interest.”
“Of course.”
“And we see that he is traveling with a man named Scott Griffin. Are you familiar with this person?”
“No,” Doug said. “Should I be?”
“Our records show that he was married to the current Chief of Operations, Kendra Griffin.” The Asian woman was morphing, melting into a dark-skinned Latina.
“Was? She still wears his name?” Many western women could not wait to shed their former husband’s names, once the divorce was concluded. “Is that a problem?”
“It is a matter of some interest. His path crossed ours several months ago. He interfered in an operation of substantial value. He harmed a valued associate.”
“Will that cause a problem? I was assured that you were professional. Surely revenge-”
Shotz cut him off. “Not at all. But he is competent. And therefore dangerous. On the other hand, a personal connection between this man Griffin and his ex-wife might help us to maintain control. She has kept his name. Perhaps there are still feelings.”
The voice was certainly synthesized, as was the visual image, but something about the conversation was chilling. “We want no unneccessary violence,” Doug said. “Everything is in place, and the situation will be volatile enough as things stand. We need no complications.”
“There will be none,” Shotz said. “In fact, I think that this man Griffin’s presence might actually work to our advantage. To tell you truthfully, my… associates and I would enjoy the chance to deal with this man.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No. Everything is on track. The remainder of the monies are to be paid into our accounts by the end of the month. You have arranged for our equipment?”
“Yes.” Fabrication of gear that could not be brought through lunar customs. Acquisition of funds through expatriot groups on Earth. Identification of an effective organization capable of carrying out a bizarre and demanding plan. Contact with revolutionary forces within the Republic of Kikaya itself…
Yes, they had accomplished miracles over the last months. Exactly what was required if they were to have any chance of achieving the miracle to come.
Freedom for his people.
A thin mist of perspiration blossomed on the back of Doug’s neck as the reality of their situation finally descended upon him.
“Is there… something wrong?” Shotz asked. “Her” face was shifting again. Morphing into a more masculine form.
Doug felt it: He had paused too long. “Everything is fine. I am just eager for it to begin.”
The screen image smiled. “Soon, my friend. All that is required is for both of us to perform as agreed. If we do this thing, then in a few short weeks, we change the world.”
The image faded away, the connection broken. Yes, indeed. In a few short weeks, the world would be changed.
Now, it was either succeed, or…
Or what? Death? Dishonor? Incarceration? He was not even certain of the laws they would be violating.
Well, if they did not proceed, he was certain that there would be hard, serious men and women from around the world and across the solar system who would be more than happy to inform him. At painful length.
The thing, then, was not to fail.
9
October 25, 2085
The former Kendra Tuinukuafe, now Kendra Griffin, opened her eyes. She nestled naked in the midst of a wide, wide hammock, peering up through her wavering water shield to the half-Earth visible above. The walls were more than four meters high, decorated from floor to ceiling with little ledges and picture frames. Her home looked a bit like a hobbit house, crammed with books and mementos, some shipped up from Earth, others fabricated or acquired in the intervening years. It was, of course, a hole in the ground. Radiation was a problem on the Moon.
Her alarm trilled again, pulling her to full wakefulness just as the wake-up lights began to rise.
“Right on time.” She yawned heartily and rolled out of the hammock, landing lightly. Now the hammock cleared her head by nearly a meter. Her broad shoulders and upper back, webbed with flyer’s muscle, flared almost like wings, narrowing her waist.
She tocked her tongue, and spoke.
“Audio live,” she said.
Her assistant’s hologram appeared. Chris Foxworthy was tall, prematurely balding, muscularly self-assured, and carried himself with an air most interpreted as “distant.” He was staring right through her, understandable since she hadn’t engaged the live feed. People were always a little stiff when speaking to avatars.