SHADOWS ACROSS THE MOON By S. F. English © Copyright October 2006, S. F. English Cover art by Jesse Palon, © copyright October 2006 ISBN 1-58608-963-3 New Concepts Publishing Lake Park, GA 31636 www.newconceptspublishing.com This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence. Dedication I would like to dedicate this book to Jen L. Miller for her humor, her support and her love. And to Ed English, my husband, who is always an inspiration to me. I would like to thank Sara Lunsford for diligently going through this book to help me edit and improve it. And thank you to Linda Campbell for encouraging me to complete this book and submit it. Chapter 1 Chaos reined. Over a million people were dead. Detroit, as the world once knew it, was gone. Footage played on a television screen, which was located in Grace Sullivan’s head, behind her eyes. A slight glitch in the picture caused Grace to pull the 4-inch rod from a hole near the inside of her ear. Frowning at the new headset, she blew on the end of the metal rod, an old trick a teacher once showed her. Being unplugged from her headset was uncomfortable. Not that she was addicted to it, like most of America, but because she had ventured out into the city. Though most people in San Francisco worked inside their homes, there was still life on the streets. People moved without seeing each other because they didn’t know how to interact socially anymore. Sure, she was nervous to be out, but the thrill of it was an adventure. She had travel skills. And, she used them for personal reasons today. A funeral for someone she didn’t know. But the lure of being around a group of people, a group showing emotions and caring for their dead loved one, was too strong to ignore. Grace looked around the BART station. What was once a huge train station that carried thousands of commuters each day was now empty. The trains had been replaced by 2-person commuter pods. The need to commute replaced by a 4-inch rod that could be inserted into your head to watch television, listen to radio, go to school, order online, whatever you wanted. As she waited for the next pod to come, she inserted the rod and was plugged in. It had been ten years since the fall of Detroit. Ten years to the day. And every station she watched only wanted to highlight those horrific scenes of dead bodies and fear. A pod, across the platform, pulled up. Grace concentrated on the screen behind her eyes. She could see someone get out, but she preferred to concentrate on the television. The fall of Detroit to a bioterrorist weapon, a weapon that was still unidentified by American scientists, seemed so far away from San Francisco. Once, Detroit had been one of the grossly overpopulated cities, but not anymore. The bio-weapon had killed all living things; flora, fauna, wildlife ... people. The death toll was quickly forgotten by the nation’s leaders. Or so it seemed, by the quick government take over of the land, and the re-population of New Detroit. But the people, the American people themselves, didn’t forget. It was too frightening to watch, so she skipped around to a channel that wasn’t showing those terrible scenes. “Be in love … be in lust … be happy; Emotions in Motion can give you all you need.” The voice filled her head. “Plug in to 1-800-Emotionchip or www.emotionchip.com and you can feel your way to the top.” The voice was replaced by another, softer voice. “You must present your mating license to purchase love or lust chips.” The Emotion Chip was the hottest selling thing on the market, for those who could afford such luxury. In the year 2095, they couldn’t stop over-population, but using a chip to fall in love became serious business. Thomas Dane, one of the worlds most wealthy, most influential, and most talented men had designed the Emotion Chip. In Grace’s opinion that chip only caused a great rift between people and emotions, between socialization and hierarchy. If it weren’t for the fact that the man could sing so beautifully, and that he had the most beautiful brown eyes, she wouldn’t buy any of his inventions, records, or DVDs. A blast of air, cold and unmerciful, ran up her coat and she shivered. It was a sign that the pod was coming. As the wind died down, she heard footsteps coming her way. She had hoped not to have to share the pod. “Hold on!” His voice was sharp, but deep. The white pod stopped, the door opened automatically to let her inside. She really didn’t want to share the small space with a stranger. Her finger hovered over the HOLD button. Should she acknowledge the man or not? She had been taught by her teachers to say little and understand her position in life. The government trained her to be subservient, but she had always found subtle ways to rebel. She had been fighting it since she was a child. The government had taken her at the tender age of four from parents who were guilty of having a child without a mating license. They installed a hook-up and she started school--sitting in a lonely, sterile room. She was to be forced into servitude until she could pay the fines of her illegal birth. Sins of the father … She would not be ruled by a social handicap. Her finger depressed the button. It turned red. Her heart beat harder, faster, as she waited. She sought solace by concentrating on the television program. The pod shuddered and dipped as its new occupant climbed in. Her finger moved from the button as she stared out the front of the vehicle. Interest. Curiosity. She fought both inclinations as etiquette dictated. A dark figure in her peripheral vision. Even from the corner of her eye, she could see the man was large. It was too late to lock the plastic door that separated them without seeming rude. Etiquette or safety? The pod began moving forward. In moments they would be in the tunnels, in the darkness. She closed her eyes and reached up to adjust her headset. Television might be more distracting. Nine people, placed in a tic-tac-toe box, faced the talk show host as she sat in a chair, seemingly alone in the studio. “Do we genetically engineer our children so they are born with hook ups?” The talk show host waved a slim arm toward the upper right box. “How can you not?” an elderly scientific-type answered. “Technology demands it! If you want to be informed, or entertained, the only way to get that is through a headset. It just makes sense to genetically engineer a hook-up that you know will be needed, as opposed to putting a child through surgery.” “That’s taking away someone’s right to choose,” The young blonde at the bottom left corner interrupted. Grace knew her. Stephanie Rose, leader of the Freedom Society Movement. She was fantastic! “Parents should determine if and when a child has a hook-up installed. Right now, because the government has programs that can only be delivered through a plug-in, it’s practically mandatory, and it’s taking away basic rights. That’s my problem with it.” Grace read everything Ms. Rose wrote, from “Killing Society Through Technology” to “Genetic Altering--Technological Marvel or Ethical Debacle?” She’d even heard her speak once. It was a private talk, and you could go there physically if you knew how to travel. Grace wanted to go. She knew how to travel, but it was so far away. Courage had failed her then and she settled for the headset and a private channel. Things were different. She had so little to lose now. A thump against the plastic door startled her. Opening her eyes, she could still see the figures in the tic-tac-toe boxes, but she saw through them, to the man in the next compartment. His back was to her and there was little light in the pod. Who knew what he was doing? He wasn’t paying attention to her, so she ignored him. “Anything that will kill en masse requires covert operations. You’d have to be well-skilled in travel techniques. Anyone with travel skills will be stopped and questioned. It isn’t going to be easy.” The man on the screen wore a general’s uniform. “The threat of nuclear bombs, artificial intelligence maneuvering, or bioterrorism is going to be stopped by limiting travel skills?” The reporter wasn’t convinced. He wouldn’t be. It was Stephanie’s husband, Robert Rose. He was as daunting and unrelenting as she was. There was a glitch in her headset, or in her brain, she wasn’t sure, but the light magnified, blurred, and came back. The headache that had only threatened now bloomed in full force. If the pain in her head and the glitch in her headset were related to her illness, would the last stop be her last stop anywhere? The tumor wasn’t supposed to kill her right away. The doctors told her six months. Centuries of modern medicine and the doctors were still “practicing.” She lowered the volume on her headset and turned it to music. She recognized the soft melodic tone, bass, and sensuality. Boycotting his emotion chip didn’t keep her from appreciating his voice. The man made wonderful music, and its notes helped to relieve her aching head. The rhythm made her warm and she could imagine him singing. She concentrated on the music. Slow rhythm, a caress to the senses--something to make love to. Wrapped in the music, soothing her aching head, the influx of volume, static, then nothing, brought her eyes open in shock. There was darkness. Had she opened her eyes? Had the tumor caused her to go blind? Her lungs pulled in air for comfort, greeting the stale smell of the pod like a friend, a friend that said, you’re still alive. Her eyelids squeezed shut, opened, and blinked rapidly. Still there was only d...
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