Community Service, like many of the other stories I’m publishing during this Baker’s Dozen Redux challenge, have received some very positive rejections. (This one almost sold but I was stupid and didn’t take the offer when I should have.)
This short story isn’t really like any of my novels, however. For one, it’s science fiction. Kinda hard SF, in some ways, and I don’t have any hard SF novels.
However, I realized that it is like a lot of my other hard SF short stories. Like Touch. Like Slow Honey. Like Hunting Ghosts in the Machine. Like Obsessions.
Most of my hard SF is not happy. The stories are visceral and disturbing. I have another hard SF story that I might do as part of this series (might not) that also fits into this mode perfectly.
One of the reasons why I’ve been doing the Baker’s Dozen Redux is because I figured out that I have many different readers. Some readers might like all of my stories. Many won’t. I’d estimated that I probably had 3-4 different types of readers.
After reviewing my hard SF stories, I realized that I probably have one other type of reader. The reader of my SF, which isn’t anything like my fantasy.
So strap yourselves in for another hard SF ride, likeTouch.
Only this time, we’re surfing all the way down, catching that last wave.
CJ and her crew live in the big domed cities on the moon and do what most teens do best: screw off, as well as mess with the system.
This time, however, some of her crew have gone too far.
Available for $0.99 at Amazon, Kobo Books, and iBookstore.
Community Service
No one lived outside the domes, on the actual surface of the moon. Ojvind talked big, making endless plans about heading out and homesteading on the barren rock. But he was full of it, and Rose and Skeeter and I all knew it. We didn’t call him on it, though—who needed a fight like that?
Instead, everyone on the moon lived in one of the domed cities, mainly so they could sleep in the public purr chambers provided by the government to every citizen. The free chambers were shit, of course. But no one wanted to lose all their muscle mass.
I’ve seen vids about those mega–expensive, private purr chambers, that could be programmed to put muscle on you. They had silk covers, foam pillows that perfectly fit your body, and probably smelled like roses.
The public ones always stank of unwashed bodies. Sticky vinyl—no longer pristine white—covered the rock hard cushions. At least half the chambers were badly tuned, and the subsonic vibrations—based on a cat’s purr—that were supposed to stimulate your muscles left me with massive headaches.
Still, they were better than nothing. And a good place to arrange a meet up, in meat space, making it harder for security to track us.
They weren’t stupid. They knew this was where we’d meet.
We weren’t stupid either. We only met in public places, too big and noisy to be bugged. Skeeter worked security for a private firm, and kept track of the chatter, made sure no action was being planned.
The four of us met that day at Mike’s Massive Diner. I swear the hard red–plastic seats were specially designed to put your ass to sleep. At least it wasn’t as bad as some of the food lines, with the creepy “happy” music supposed to aid in digestion as well as get you moving in and out of there. The syrupy Muzak played at Mike’s was just loud enough to cover the clanking of the assembly belt that pumped out sludge socks—recycled swill in a long tube that tasted just about as bad as you’d imagine.
We hunched together in one of the smaller booths along the wall, apart from the thirty or so tables jumbled across the echoing room. We kept our sludge socks close to us, nursing our way through our meal so no one had a legitimate reason to kick us out. The attendants in their prissy white uniforms with yellow aprons still shot us dirty looks after we’d sat there for a full twenty minutes.
I wore a bio suit, of course—the newest model, silver and self–repairing, with internal heating and cooling, abrasion resistant, and form fitting. Only my head and hands were exposed, but I always carried my helmet and gloves.
Always.
There hadn’t been a dome breach in decades, but the reason most public places resembled a metal rat warren with mazelike tunnels was so sections could be quickly quarantined, only killing off a few unlucky bastards instead of putting all of Half–Dome city at risk.
My older brothers—who’d thought it was fun to put pinhole pricks in my suit the day before we’d had a drill, then left me outside an airlock—had taught me what airless suffocation truly felt like, and I was never going to experience it again.
Skeeter dressed like I did, ready to bug out at the faintest siren. He didn’t keep his brown hair short enough, though. It constantly fell into his hazel eyes and stuck out over the collar of his suit. I harassed him about it, but he’d just given me that killer smile of his and told me I was sweet.
As if.
Ojvind and Rose wore gray overalls, typical of most factory workers. At least three–fourths of the room wore them as well. That was the only similarity between them: Ojvind was blond, tall, and too lanky—we were all getting on his case about getting more muscle mass—while Rose was dark, skin and hair, short, and strong.
I always considered myself the oddball: pure Asian with parents imported directly from China, Earthside, and from a good home with a mom and a dad and half–a–dozen older siblings. They loved me, and told me I could always come back.
I learned the proclamation I’d made the year before was right—I would rather shovel shit than live with them.
Though the table top at the diner looked like cheap plastic, it was actually self healing, and couldn’t be scratched or even dented. Skeeter still tried, using a diamond–tipped pen he’d hacked together. I’d seen him use it to etch his tag on the top of a dome, an oversized, stylized S, like Superman, or Super–Skeeter.
Ojvind brought up the next ride first. “When can we go?”
Skeeter shrugged. “Got to finish the latest modules. Maybe a week.”
I knew Skeeter was full of it: In his message to me he’d already told me we were leaving the dome tonight. But I wasn’t about to say anything.
“But I need to get out! Soon,” Ojvind insisted.
Rose tugged on Ojvind’s arm, trying to get him to lean back, calm down, not to draw attention to us. “Sweetie, don’t you think—”
“Leave off,” Ojvind said, shoving Rose away, almost knocking her to the ground. We all scrambled to get her reseated, Skeeter assuring the wait staff that we were okay, and not going to cause any trouble.
When Skeeter slid back into the booth, he gave me a worried look. This wasn’t the first time Ojvind had been too physical with Rose. But what could we do? She wouldn’t leave him.
“Can we get out tonight? Please,” Ojvind whined once the usual crowd noises had returned and no one was paying any attention to us again.
“Yeah, sure, okay,” Skeeter said. “I’ll get us through darkside security. Ojvind, you’re first on the rope for the climb to the top of the dome. Then Rose, then CJ, then me. We’ll synchronize our boards up top.”
It was the usual setup for us.
And maybe that was our downfall, how casual we all were. It was cloak and dagger for fun, not in earnest, hiding from the authorities, believing we’d only get a hand slap if we were caught.
We should have planned more. Checked our equipment sooner. Synced our boards earlier.
How could any of us have known it would be our last ride?
Ξ
The guard at the darkside gate didn’t even look up from his game as we strode through the detector. The automatic scanners we walked by picked up the fake IDs Skeeter had given us. The vid would catch the overlay Skeeter had set up as well. Nothing much could hide height and gait, but we still shuffled like Earthers, hunched over and watching the ground, as if we were unsure of the gravity.
Red warning signs flashed and the hazard buzzer rang through the decompression chamber as air slowly drained out. Blazing arrows pointed to the emergency buttons, giving us time to make sure our suits were working. I checked and double–checked every system and joint, verifying my readiness.
Once I knew I was safe, I found myself bouncing on the balls of my feet, unable to hold back my excitement and nervousness.
Finally. It was time to ride again.
The airlock didn’t spit us out directly onto the surface. A set of two standing walls circled the base of the dome, some type of defense the military had insisted on. Because there were so many tanks up here that could have been smashed into the dome, right?
But the walls helped hide us. We walked between them, until we were at the mid–point between the dark and day sides.
Skeeter always swore that Half–Dome had the sweetest rides. Something about that contrast—half the city in darkness, just out of reach of the sun, while the other half bathed in its glory. Because the dome protecting those law abiding citizens on the inside had to do two jobs, it was easier for those of us, now on the outside, to fuck with it.
We roped in, maintaining the order that Skeeter had laid down, then started to climb up the dome.
The handles attached to a ribbon down the side of the dome were like squared–off, capital Ds, spaced so that a ten–year old wouldn’t have any problem climbing them, making me hunch over, afraid to miss a step. The metal cut into hands and boots alike. It wasn’t a pleasant climb—no one did this part for fun.
Ojvind went first, clipping in, then climbing, attaching the guide rope to each point as he passed them, finally getting to the first ledge and resting, a dark spot high against the starry sky. It was good he went first, since he’d been the most on–edge of all of us.
But I understood what he was feeling.
Only as I climbed did I feel the confines of the city drop away. First, we got above the walls surrounding the base of the dome, then above the standing rocks, until, finally, the sky opened up and you could see forever. Enough light spilled over from the bright side to illuminate the moonscape. Climbing on the light side, you could see more. But here, on the dark side, you could imagine more, stare into the endless night and create your own castles and cities.
The topside platform wasn’t much more than a meter across. We turned our backs to each other to put together our boards: folded pieces of high–res plastic, each about the length of a boot, that snapped open and were held rigid by supercharged magnets.
“Goddamn it!” Ojvind’s voice came over our group channel with a force that made me wince. “My board won’t stay together.”
“What’s the problem?” Rose asked, easing over to take a look.
“Charge won’t hold,” Ojvind complained.
“Sucks, man,” I told him. He was just going to have to climb back down. There was no way we were set up to do field repairs.
“Rose, you should give me your board,” Ojvind replied.
“What?” I asked, livid. “No way. You carry up your own equipment, ride down with it. She shouldn’t have to give up her ride.”
I knew Rose would buckle, though. Ojvind would switch to a private channel and harangue and threaten her until she caved.
“I know,” Skeeter said. “Instead of using the full board, why not just the foot piece?”
“Do you think it would work?” Ojvind asked.
“Sure,” Skeeter said. “I can make the adjustments to the course to compensate.”
“Dude, don’t,” I told Ojvind as he started disassembling his board. “This is crazy. You need the full board for control.” While riding a shorter board was possible, in theory, now wasn’t the time to try it. Not on a full run, from the top to the bottom of the dome, where falling could be deadly.
“It’ll be cool,” Rose piped up, the mechanics of her helmet making her voice tinny. “Do it.”
Skeeter already had his equipment out. It looked like an overly large game controller, with two antennas and a boatload of dials, buttons, and readouts. It projected a “slope” for us to surf down. Our boards were synced up with it, so we’d feel every bump, dip, and patch of ice.
“The smaller board shouldn’t be that difficult to track,” he assured us. “Might be slower though. More drag with a smaller footprint.”
“Really?” I asked Skeeter on our private channel.
“It’ll be fine. A nice, slow ride down,” Skeeter replied.
I could hear the huge grin he had.
That would show Ojvind.
“CJ, you should go first,” Skeeter told me on the public channel. “Test the slope, check for shoals.”
“The only shoals will be the ones you put there,” I pointed out. Still, I strapped my boots into my board. “See you bottomside.”
From the top of the dome to the bottom was about a mile. I intended to take every turn, every mogul, every shoal with grace and speed. Show the rest of them how it should be done.
Ξ
Darkness hurtled toward me. There was no wind, no rush, but the sense of movement, of freedom, held up through Skeeter’s artistry and my physical skill.
The first shoals showed up in my heads up display as sparkling pink rocks. “Cute,” I muttered as I slid around them, banking hard right, then hard left, sliding between the piles of data designed to slow me down.
Then came the moguls, mounds of delight, that I had a split second to decide whether to avoid or fly over.
I took as many as I could, by long board flexing as I flowed up and over, never loosing full contact with the glass of the dome.
A crevice showed up next. I cut hard left, then right. “Goddamn it Skeeter! A path would be nice.”
All of them cracked up over the comms. “Just messing with ya,” Skeeter assured me. “You need to watch your speed.”
“Asshole,” I said, still slowly making my way toward the abyss. “Where?”
A single bridge appeared, over the endless darkness. I had to tack over to it, then slid across. From there on, I took it easy. Skeeter gave me a more smooth course, and I took advantage of it, turning and sliding and enjoying the freedom, the night sky, and the open air.
At the bottom, I folded up my gear and tuned into the security comms.
No reports that I could find.
Maybe we’d be lucky, and get in a second ride that night.
When I tuned back to our group chat, Ojvind was harassing Skeeter about going next.
“What the fuck?” I asked, breaking back in. “Rose should go next.” That way, Skeeter wouldn’t have to reset the course twice. It would be more fair to all of us. We’d have more time, then, maybe for that second ride.
“I got it,” Skeeter said tersely.
I pinged him on our private channel. “What the hell, dude? You sure?”
“Yeah, yeah. Ojvind didn’t threaten me. Much,” Skeeter muttered. “Later, ’K?”
“Later,” I assured him. Because Ojvind shouldn’t pull that shit, and I was tired of it.
Did we really need to be four to ride?
Ojvind started his run. At the shoals he commented, “Really? Pink?”
He made it through those, but the moguls messed him up.
I think it was the moguls. I think it happened because Skeeter hadn’t adjusted the course enough.
It wouldn’t have been because Skeeter had left in some of the larger bumps on purpose, his own kind of “community service.”
I think.
Ojvind flowed up and over the first couple of moguls with no problem. But he didn’t slow down, as Skeeter had thought. Instead, Ojvind gained speed on his shorter board, and when he hit the next mogul, he went up.
And kept going.
He didn’t have a long enough board to keep contact with the dome.
And he didn’t have the grace when he landed to keep on his feet.
Ojvind tumbled, slowly at first, then faster and faster down the edge of the dome, bouncing hard, his screams cutting off abruptly as he struck the ground.
I raced as fast as I could around the base of the dome, between the two walls. I tried to raise Ojvind on his private channel, cranking the sound way up, but I didn’t even hear breathing.
However, he hadn’t landed between the walls. He was all the way outside. If his helmet had cracked, or his suit ripped, and he was unconscious, there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t get to him before he suffocated.
When I switched my comms back to the group chat, I heard Skeeter shouting, “No, Rose! NO!”
Rose had decided that the fastest way down, to help Ojvind, was over the side of the dome.
Skeeter hadn’t had time to adjust the course back, though.
And Rose fell, too.
Ξ
The courts put Skeeter away, claiming his equipment somehow endangered all the good citizens of Half–Dome. Bullshit, I say. We weren’t weakening the dome or interfering with its effectiveness or any of the other stupid lies.
The only ones ever in danger was us.
Me—I got ten kajillion hours of community service. For those who think that wasn’t enough, trust me, working in the bowels of the city at the refuge reclamation plant is Hell.
Can’t see the stars down here. Can’t breathe, either, not really.
I manage to sneak edgeward some nights, though, and look out of the dome, beyond the pod houses and auto–buggies and onto stark rock, no moisture to erode it, no gravity to hold it down. Some people—most I guess—don’t like the moonscape. Too alien, too other. They prefer their warrens and sludge socks and feel safer with the solid roof of a rat warren overhead.
I’d live out there, in that desolate land, still, if I could.
So I’m taking a break from the recycling, the helmetless smells, the shock of seeing skin, and writing down my side of the story.
Telling the truth about what happened—that’s community service too, isn’t it?