Principia – De Motu Corporum XXII
Lies, Fake News, and Alternative Facts
This is the final part of the webnovel “Principia — De Motu Corporum.” Click here to go to the previous chapter, or here to go to the beginning.
It had been a long time since Sara had felt this way — weightless, relaxed, more serene and tranquil than she had ever felt before in her life. There was a soft, white, even ghostly light all around her, more distinct shapes hovered overhead, moving in ghostly ways and going about their ghostly business. They weren’t scary ghosts or disturbing ghosts — in fact, their presence was strangely calming.
Or maybe this was still the first time, and she had only dreamed the last few years. From what she could remember, most of it was pretty forgettable. After all, everyone knew that space travel wasn’t real — just another lie the government told to break peoples’ grip on reality.
They were sneaky mother…
Mother…
Mother…
There was another word that was supposed to follow it, but she couldn’t remember what it was.
Motherpucker? No, that’s not right.
Mothertrucker? Still doesn’t sound right.
Motheryucker? Still wrong, but it’ll have to do. Those bastards in the government were sneaky motheryuckers.
There was a soft squelching sound coming from somewhere behind her eyeballs, and suddenly she felt more awake and alert, and the ghostliness surrounding her got a little sharper, more focused.
“Synaptic bridges are online,” a voice said as if from a great distance, “We can shut down the connectomic engine and proceed interoperatively. Increase her norepinephrine levels by 12%.”
Sara began to feel a rush of energy, wakefulness, alertness. Her body was getting heavier, and she didn’t like the feeling.
Go away, Sara thought, Leave me the yuck alone…
Regardless of what she wanted, consciousness came soon enough. She was in a well-lit room, sterile white, with a bright halo lamp overhead. She could see two people in surgical scrubs and opaque full-face masks. There were several gleaming robot arms moving above her, going about their robot business.
A white egg-shaped object with two glowing green eyes bent over her on its own gleaming arm. “Welcome back to the world of the living, Ms. Reynolds,” it said in a soothing, gentle, feminine voice, “My name is Dr. Magic Cube, and I’m the primary neurosurgeon assigned to your case. Can you tell me where you are?”
“The Martian charity clinic in the… 4–7,” Sara replied dreamily, “Minneapolis.”
“‘Minneapolis?’” Dr. Cube asked, “On Earth? Increase her serotonin levels slightly, Doctor.”
Something changed. She didn’t know what it was, or how to describe how it felt, but something had changed.
“I’m afraid you’re nowhere near your hometown, Ms. Reynolds,” Dr. Cube explained, “You’re in the hospital at the Martian Embassy, undergoing reconstructive brain surgery.”
“I’m… in Africa?”
“You’re in Surveyor City, on Earth’s moon,” Dr. Cube gently corrected.
“That’s not possible,” Sara denied, “Trips to the Moon… outer space… not real. Government lies.”
“So why do you say you’re in Africa?” Dr. Cube asked.
“Mars is… a rich African country,” Sara slurred, “Everybody knows that…”
“Dr. Chandra, please check her synaptic connections, see if we missed anything,” Dr. Cube asked.
“Running diagnostic,” one of the masked technicians answered, “Detecting a minor irregularity in Broca’s Region — probably mild, temporary aphasia.”
The technician paused for a moment. “Oh, here’s something,” she continued, “It appears that some of the neurochips in her hippocampus, Elements 14ACF8 through 14B0E0, have failed.”
“A thousand neurochips governing semantic memory in the patient have gone offline?” Dr Cube asked.
“Error code 4077,” the technician replied, “We’ll have to pull ‘em.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Reynolds,” Dr. Cube apologized, “While your autonomic system has been repaired and you’re in no immediate danger of dying, I’m afraid that I’ll need you to be awake while we remove some faulty implants from one of the memory centers in your brain.”
“You go ahead and cut out whatever you need,” Sara muttered, “There’s plenty of room in there for your hands and knives.”
“I can assure you that your brain is just the right size for you,” Dr. Cube answered, “Now, I’ll have to ask you to do some things for me, so that we can tell if the surgery is going well.”
“I can’t move,” Sara said, “Why the yuck can’t I move!?”
“We’ve temporarily disabled parts of your motor cortex,” Dr. Cube explained, “Seizures are still a common occurrence in neurosurgical operations, so we take the precaution of keeping convulsions from happening in the first place. Your motor functions will be restored when the risk of seizures is low enough.”
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
After a few more days of surgery, Sara was feeling much better. Different, strange, but better. The nature of this difference and strangeness was hard for her to put her finger on, but she kinda liked it, whatever it was.
She felt… smart.
Well, smarter. She wouldn’t have thought she had any brains to fix, but here she was, with some tiny little brains of her own now.
Yuck you, Aunt Marie.
She was even mobile now. Sara could walk on her own — she even had Dr. Cube’s permission to move around the facility, provided that she stayed on the hospital campus. That’s why she was standing outside Tahlia’s room, watching the doctors install her new robot eye. Although she missed the beginning, she did see them implant a little cap that they said would seal up the back of her eye socket and connect to the nerves, which would receive a wireless signal from the eye device, allowing her to see with it.
Despite her rough-and-tumble childhood in the extreme poverty of the outskirts of Minneapolis, Sara had never actually seen an empty eye socket before. She knew people who had lost an eye or two, but they had always covered it up with a patch or a cloth or something. Some even had replacements made of glass or plastic, but they were always obvious fakes.
The socket was a great hole the size of Sara’s fore thumb that looked like a deep black abyss. Without an eyeball to give them shape, the eyelids just sunk into the cavity, only adding to the illusion that it was some great sinkhole in her sista’s face.
Now they were putting some kind of clamps on her face to pull Tahlia’s eyelids out of the cavity. The surgeon rooted around inside for a bit before removing an eyelash that had fallen inside. The fake eyeball itself was an off-white, glossy orb made of glass or plastic, or maybe some special Martian material of some kind, she didn’t know.
They had inserted the new eye with those tongs of theirs when Misty approached her from down the corridor. “How are you today, Ms. Reynolds?” Misty asked her.
“Fine, I guess,” Sara responded, turning away as the doctor started to stitch Tahlia’s eye muscles to the device, “Still can’t remember that word, but the doctors say it should come back to me in a few more days.”
“It’s good to hear that you’re doing well,” Misty replied, “I have some good news, by the way: You’re going to receive refugee status — the hearing is just a formality now.”
“Yeah, that’s great…” Sara said absently.
Misty looked concerned. “I thought you’d be pleased,” she answered, “You’re entitled to Martian protection now.”
“Yeah, but what now?” Sara sighed, “I can’t go nowhere, and I am not spending the rest of my life here at the embassy. I just wanna do somethin’ with my life, ya know?”
Misty smiled wanly. She understood Sara’s predicament better than she could ever know.
“As a refugee, you have the option to take your ACEs and become a Martian citizen,” Misty offered gently, “That way, you’d be free to travel just like any other Martian. Of course, you’ll need to get the full neurochip suite, but you’ll get full vocational training in a field you’ll excel in.”
Sara fiddled with the plug up her right nostril. “Guess they’ll have to dig up in my nose to get to my brain again, huh?” she asked.
“It’s better than cutting your skull open, isn’t it?” Misty asked rhetorically before continuing on her way, “Of course, you could always join the Militia. It worked for me.”
“You really think they’d take me?” Sara called back.
“I think it could be arranged,” Misty replied.
Sara just stood there and watched Misty walk away. Perhaps she had a future after all.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
“In interplanetary news, the United Earth Prime-Minister-In-Waiting, George Paramount of the United States of America, held a press conference to-sol on the Sinus Medina Massacre, or what terrestrial news media sources refer to as ‘ the Lunar Mob Riots,’” the cyphont newsreader’s avatar reported over the news stream playing in the Dejah Thoris Club Martien, the drinking establishment at the Martian Embassy, “The massacre, which began on 177 Scorpius 19 at 11:27 Airy Mean Time, was a military response by the United Earth Peacekeeping Command to a mass protest by the Selenite community all over Luna, mainly concentrated in Surveyor City. The death toll as of this stream is currently estimated to be approximately 9,700 Selenites and 17 Earthers, although the Selenite casualties are expected to rise as more information comes in.”
The banner in the bottom third of the screen changed to read, “Scan code to learn more about the Sinus Medina Massacre or how you can help the victims,” preceded by a matrix barcode.
“You may view the entire event by scanning the code on the right side of the screen,” the newsreader continued, “but some of the highlights of the conference follow. This was his response to a question on a coinciding incident between CETU and MCM spacecraft in the Asteroid Belt:”
The screen transitioned to a clip taken from coverage of the press conference where a Somali woman dressed in all black interrogated the voluminous future Prime Minister of United Earth.
“Saynab Al-Mufti, Al-Jazeera News,” she introduced herself, “Mr. Paramount, you said in an interview to the Associated Press last Friday that you disapproved of PM Ayodele’s handling of a Martian warship’s interception of the Venture Corp freighter Venture Star, and that had you been in charge, you would have taken stronger measures. Could you elaborate on that, please?”
“The Mawrshuns, they’re bad people. The worst,” the buoy in the navy suit responded, “Nobody knows how very bad people they are like I do. People tell me they aren’t even U-Man, just robots. Really the worst. You can’t talk to them. You just can’t talk to them.”
“That may have been an answer to a question, Mr. Paramount,” Al-Mufti clarified, “but not mine. According to the Star Tribune, you said, and I quote, ‘I told him’ — PM Ayodele — ‘that it was a mistake to give in to the Rusties, that he was weak and a loser, and that he shoulda bent Mars over the rail and shoved the nuculer [sic] up its ass. The nuculer [sic] is all they understand.’ Could you elaborate on this, Mr. Paramount?”
“I never said that,” Paramount flatly denied, “Fake news, and you should be ashamed of such tenth-rate reporting! But it’s a good idea, using the nuculer on my enemies. ‘Why don’t we use the nuculer more often?’ I ask my people, and they all say to me, ‘sir, sir, we all want to use the nuculer all the time, but this Ayo guy won’t let us!’ It’s true. Believe me.”
“Are you saying that you believe that the Space Command ships involved in the Venture Star incident should have attacked the Martian destroyer with nuclear weapons?” Al-Mufti asked, “Should the force commander at the Sinus Medina have used nuclear weapons on the rioters? Do you believe that that is an appropriate level of force to use as a first resort?”
“Get this woman outta here!” Paramount ordered while Al-Mufti struggled to shout her last question over his bellicose bellowing, “Put her in solitary! Use the waterboard! No more lyin’ jeeras! Fake News!”
The stream transitioned back to the cyphont newsreader.
“Mr. Paramount could not be reached for a comment,” the newsreader said.
“The Earthers have picked a goddamn child to lead them,” Jon muttered to himself as he swished his kokuhai around in its glass, “and not a particularly bright one, either.”
“Yeah, he’s a real piece of work,” the voice of someone approaching the bar said, “If you’re ever in the mood for morbid curiosity, you should check out his O-7 dossier.”
Jon swiveled around on his barstool to see Colonel Marabe standing there behind him.
“As you were, Commander,” Marabe ordered before Jon could jump to attention.
“Colonel,” Jon acknowledged, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I just felt the need for a quiet drink, Commander,” Marabe replied, “One dose of masato, straight up.” The robot bartender soon produced a half-liter glass of a milky liquor and set it in front of the seat that Marabe had just taken.
She picked it up, took a luxuriant sip of her beverage, savored its taste in her mouth, and finally swallowed it and let out a sigh of contentment.
“Oh, how I’ve missed this,” Marabe declared, “Nothing like a tall glass of cassava booze after a long day.”
“You say that as if you don’t get the pleasure often, Colonel,” Jon said before taking a sip of his own.
“I don’t,” Marabe answered, “The Earthers have cassava listed as a staple foodstuff, so it’s illegal to distribute outside the Earth Sphere or use other than in approved food products, so no masato from Earth.”
“So, where did that come from?” Jon asked.
“There’s a black market distillery in Bean’s Hollow that manages to find a way,” Marabe answered, “I got them some assistance in manufacturing and distribution — to undermine Earth’s stranglehold on the Lunar colonies, of course — and they send the embassy a couple bottles every so often in return.”
“Inventive use of our mandate,” Jon commented.
“Just as inventive as orchestrating a coup d’etat in the largest organized crime syndicate in the Earth Sphere in order to make them more receptive to O-9 operations,” Marabe replied with a smile, “Nicely done, by the way.”
“In breaking news,” the newsreader continued in the background, “United Earth’s chief law enforcement agency, the Ministry of Inquiry, has announced the findings of its investigation into the destruction of the agricultural colony EML-1 #7, ‘Fasal,’ which they misattribute to sabotage by LLT operatives backed by MCM agents. This provocative act, promoted on Earth Sphere social media by Prime-Minister-In-Waiting George Paramount, is sure to inflame tensions between Earth and Mars in what DRI analysts say have not been seen since the lead-up to Mars’ entry into the Colony Wars in 115 After Satellite. Mr. Paramount had this to say on the subject:”
“Remember the crimes the Mawrshuns have committed against the yuge masses of people,” Paramount’s acoustically offensive drawl came on the news, “and how repeatedly and ruthlessly they exploited them. They deciduously manipulate people to do their dirty, filthy work for them. It must tax all their powers to present themselves as ‘friends of U-Manity’ to the poor victims they skin raw. Everybody says so. Everybody.”
“Why hasn’t an O-9 wet team assassinated him yet?” Jon wondered aloud, “The man destroys everything he touches, and we’re just going to let him take control of the largest arsenal in human history?”
“I think you just answered your own question, Commander,” Marabe answered, “Paramount will be Earth’s biggest source of chaos and infighting in 100 years. That’ll give us openings–”
“The guy just quoted ‘Mein Kampf’ in reference to us,” Jon interrupted, “on a government livestream, no less! I think that we have to prepare for the very real possibility that he means to destroy us!”
“Paramount can barely string two sentences together,” Marabe countered, “His train of thought is so disjointed that O-7 Medical diagnosed him with ADHD before we found out that he just cuts his cocaine with moon dust.”
She took another sip of her drink. “No,” she said with finality, “He’s much more likely to reduce the United Earth government into a squabbling mob of 214 ethno-states hell-bent on clubbing each other over the head with sticks and stones. DRI certified it an acceptable risk.”
“I hope you’re right,” Jon said before turning back to his drink.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
Finchley collapsed onto one of the plush sofas in the precinct substation waiting room, utterly spent. No amount of coffee could make up for 120 hours of non-stop debriefings, writing reports, and all manner of tedious and interminable police work.
Oh, who he would kill for 10 minutes of peace and quiet.
He was supposed to make himself available for further questioning, but he was so fucking tired. His eyelids felt like they had lead weights attached to them and he had sunk so deeply into the couch that he couldn’t get out even if he wanted to. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the darkness.
It’s not like he could possibly resist the siren song of somnolence in his condition.
After a time, Finchley was roused to a semiconscious state by the soft, tender touch of a familiar female — he didn’t have to see, hear, or smell her to know that it was his beloved Ahn Lihn. The warmth and weight of her flesh, the suppleness of her contours, the smoothness of her caresses, the gentle sensuality of her breath on his skin…
It was unmistakable. No one ever loved him as passionately as she did.
“Mmm…” Finchley said as he stirred slightly, “Hello, love. Where have you been all this time?”
“Being grilled,” Nguyen replied playfully as Finchley chuckled at every suggestion she made, “On ice. Given the third degree. Had the screws put to.”
“Stop, stop!” Finchley laughed amusedly.
“Put through the wringer,” Nguyen continued with a growing smile on her face, “Pumped for information. Sweated out. Worked over.”
“Would you be up for another workover, nguoi yeu?” Finchley asked playfully, “‘Cause I am if you are.”
“Not here, love,” Nguyen replied, “This is a police station!”
“Well, fuck,” Finchley groaned with a smile on his face, “I’d go back to the hotel with you, but I’m just too damn comfortable to get up. Maybe you could carry me there? You certainly seem to be full of energy today.”
“If I did that, it would look like I was kidnapping you,” Nguyen answered teasingly, “and people might suspect something.”
Finchley finally dragged his eyes open to lay them upon his beloved again when another LSS officer entered the room and turned on the news monitor — so named because of built-in limiters that only allowed it to play approved news streams like BBC, Al-Jazeera, ND Interplanetary, Xinhua News, Pravda, even CBS. Currently, it was streaming CisLunar Network News.
“…Our hearts go out to her family, especially her sister in San Marino City,” the newsreader, Penny Farthing, said as the screen displayed a tribute to the reporter that read, “Giuseppina ‘Peppi’ Conti, 2271–2293,” “In World News, the Ministry of Inquiry announced today their findings in the destruction of EML-1 colony #7, ‘Fasal,’ attributing the attack to a conspiracy between LLT terrorists and Martian military operatives…”
That was enough of a jolt to yank Finchley off of his comfy couch and onto his feet.
“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed as he ran out of the room, down the hall, and misjudged his momentum such that instead of turning the corner, he slammed into the far wall and punched a car-tire-sized crater in the sheetrock paneling. He picked himself up again and started running once more.
“Commissioner!” Finchley shouted as he barged into the room.
The Commissioner wasn’t alone — they were accompanied by the Vigilant Man, at whom Finchley was finally able to get a good look despite this being the third time they had met. Before he quickly donned his mirrored wraparound sunglasses, Finchley saw that the man’s gaunt, almost skeletal features and cold, steel-gray eyes betrayed the severe spirit of a man who was prepared to commit any act, regardless of how heinous or illegal it was, if it meant carrying out the orders of his government.
Judging by his salt-and-pepper hair, pale skin, and light sprinkling of liver spots, Finchley figured that he had to be in his late 50s. He was tall, too — probably about 190 centimeters.
He was probably armed, but Finchley couldn’t see a gun on his person. His wristwatch most likely concealed a garotte — it was the sort of thing that people like him were likely to possess.
“What is it that you wanted to demand from the Commissioner, Mr. Finchley?” the Vigilant Man asked in his usual vaguely threatening manner, “They’re a very busy person.”
“Why have the Ministry of Inquiry declared Mars the culprit of the destruction of Colony Seven?” Finchley barked, “The investigation isn’t even complete yet!”
“Of course it is, Inspector,” the Vigilant Man replied with intimidating nonchalance, The Minister for Inquiry approved the report herself. Are you really prepared to oppose your minister, Mr. Finchley?”
“I need a tightbeam to Ministry City at once,” Finchley ordered, “I want to speak to the Minister immediately!”
“Information control protocols are in effect,” the Vigilant Man said firmly, “There’s nothing you can do.”
“Why is he speaking for you, Commissioner!?” Finchley asked them, “Is the Ministry of Public Safety dictating policy here!?”
“Please drop this matter, Inspector,” the Commissioner said apologetically, “I’m afraid it’s out of my hands.”
Frustrated enough to turn his face purple with rage, Finchley angrily stormed out of the office and stomped his way back to the waiting room.
“What is it, Ewan?” Nguyen asked him, worried, “Is it true, what they’re saying on the news?”
“I don’t know,” Finchley mused, still fuming, “Probably not, but there isn’t much we can do on that matter.”
“Why not?” Nguyen inquired.
“Public Safety’s got information controls up,” Finchley answered, “In fact, they seem to be calling the shots here, and I’m beginning to think that this entire affair may have been staged for their benefit — don’t ask me to explain, it just seems too neat.”
“If that’s the case,” Nguyen concluded, “then we’ll need to prove their complicity. Our best lead now is still Vesna Novak. If we can find her, that would go a long way towards building a case against them.”
“First, let’s eat something and get some sleep,” Finchley recommended, “At this point, I doubt that one more day would hamper our investigation.”
Nguyen concurred. It had been a long week.
— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —
The vista from the penthouse suite overlooking Dubai was at its most stunning at night — it was, after all, the only time of day when people could go outside without rapidly succumbing to heat exhaustion. Unlike many of its neighboring cities, however, the Al-Maktoum sheikdom was so deeply invested in keeping Dubai alive that they converted the city into the world’s first arcology so that living there was at least possible in the searing heat caused by climate change. The deadly daytime heat helped keep the city free of slums and the undesirable people who lived in them, securing Dubai’s reputation as a haven for Earth’s obscenely wealthy ownership class.
The city’s nightlife was appropriately vibrant — all of the open-air rooftop patios, boardwalks, and skyway gondolas made the skyline come alive with light. Even the red anti-collision lights on the southerly space elevator, Turrim Africanus, which was located all the way in Somalia only enhanced the awe-inspiring scene. The lights atop the flood barrier, which spanned the entire Strait of Hormuz to the east, provided a helpful horizon with which the time to sunrise could be estimated.
Shiru entered the apartment’s spacious lounge, where the sole resident of the property stood at one of the room’s floor-to-ceiling windows, the brightness of the view outside profiling him in silhouette due to the darkness of the unlit room. His silhouette was one of a man wearing long robes or a yukata, and he was holding a glass of some sort of liquor in his hand as he watched the millions of Dubai denizens beneath him enjoy the cool of night.
“I heard the good news, Shiru,” the man said, anticipating her report, “I think that we can tell the others that the stage is set for the next phase of the Plan.”
“I believe that Mr. Paramount intends to exploit this situation to manufacture as much outrage as he can, especially in Europe and the Americas,” Shiru clarified, “I still do not understand why you think that this man is an asset. He’s vulgar, vile, venal, craven, chaotic, and corrupt. He cares for no one and nothing but himself, he’s impossibly vain and revolting, and he goes out of his way to be cruel and untrustworthy, and on top of that, the only intelligence he possesses is a low cunning that allows him to somehow ignore scandals that would have destroyed anyone else.”
“I believe that you just listed all of his most useful qualities,” the man countered, “The daily catastrophes he will no doubt wreak will be convenient distractions from our efforts, and his inability to focus on anything but short-term personal gain will prevent him from becoming a threat to us. Trust in the Plan, Shiru.”
Shiru bristled at the man’s categorical dismissal of her concerns, but she didn’t let it show.
“Yes, Mr. Miyamoto.”
TO BE CONTINUED IN PRINCIPIA — SA KI KACHE (coming December 6th, 2021)
