The Man Who Broke the Moon Read online

  The Man Who Broke the Moon

  Michael James Ploof

  Devin G. P. Ploof

  Copyright © 2018 Traveling Bard publishing

  All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  The Man Who Broke the Moon

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Life’s a Beach

  Chapter 2

  Burgers in Paradise

  Chapter 3

  Bat out of Hell

  Chapter 4

  Between a Rock and a T-27

  Chapter 5

  Got Nine Lives and this ain’t One

  Chapter 6

  The Zero-G Club

  Chapter 7

  Liberty 1

  Chapter 8

  A Coin Flip

  Chapter 9

  All the Little Lights

  Chapter 10

  Debriefing

  Chapter 11

  The Dead Feel no Pain

  Chapter 12

  A Little Help From a Friend

  Chapter 13

  Unexpected Visitors

  Chapter 14

  A New Ride

  Chapter 15

  Termination Shock

  Chapter 16

  Two Days to Go Time

  Chapter 17

  From Russia with Love

  Chapter 18

  What a Pal

  Chapter 19

  The Ghost of Thomas Tucker

  Chapter 20

  The Carousel Song

  Chapter 21

  The Other Side of Hell

  Chapter 22

  Jail Break

  Chapter 23

  The Ninth Planet

  Chapter 24

  The Admiral’s Revenge

  Chapter 25

  The land of Dreams

  Chapter 26

  Break on Through to the Other Side

  Chapter 27

  The Confession

  Chapter 28

  Iria’Nan

  Chapter 29

  The banished Ones

  Chapter 30

  Getting the Hell out of Dodge

  Chapter 32

  Homeward Bound

  Other Books by Michael James Ploof

  Prologue

  The program director sat at his desk and watched the scientist march down the hallway to the door at the very end. The scientist stopped at the threshold, hesitating for a moment before knocking on the door. A big black mechanical eyeball sprang from a hole in the wall. It scanned the scientist’s body, and the program director watched through the monitor as the man squirmed beneath its gaze.

  “You may enter, Remy,” said the director.

  The door opened, and Remy stepped through the threshold.

  The director didn’t so much as glance at the nervous man, instead, he kept on working on his computer. His office was filled with pictures of a young man in fleet uniform who looked remarkably like him. All the furnishings in the room were black, and the grating of the floor as well as the walls were a metal the color of pewter.

  The program director was sitting with perfect posture and the shoulders of a man touched by Father Time, but not by weakness. His suit was of the darkest black, which made the gold fleet eagle just below his breast pocket stand out. Behind him lurked two shadows that were barely visible in the depths of the dim room. One stood with a single light shining in the middle of its chest. It was an android, one that looked remarkably human. The other figure stood much larger, filling the entire left corner of the room.

  Finally, the director turned his gaze to his subordinate.

  “Remy, I am assuming you have finally ended your failure, otherwise you would not be here.”

  “Yes, sir!” Remy quivered as he spoke, his chin expanding as he tried to stand a bit taller. “The process worked, we have finally merged the computer with one of the hybrids; number seven.”

  “Lucky number seven,” the director said with a faint smile to himself. Then his hard eyes turned to the Remy once more. “And the other six subjects?”

  “Well, sir, I actually have good news about that as well. We have managed to harvest some of their remains and merge them with this new technology. I think you will be very pleased with the results.”

  “It’s about time that you please me,” said the director with a laugh. “You know, had you told me that you failed again I would have killed you.”

  The scientist was quivering and seemed to be on the verge of soiling himself. With disgust, the director sneered, “You have a weak soul, Remy. You weren’t worth your weight in shit until now. But you have redeemed yourself. Return to your quarters and wait for your next assignment.”

  The scientist bit his lip and cleared his throat, but the director wasn’t paying him any attention. “Mark, you said I would be able to go home after this.”

  The program director looked to Remy with a sneer, and the thin man subconsciously took a step back.

  “You don’t have a home anymore,” the director said evenly. “You don’t have a life anymore either. You belong to me now, and if you want to avoid finding out what lies behind the only door you have left out of this place, I recommend you turn around and return to your quarters. And if you ever call me by a name other than sir again… well, you will be our next experiment.”

  The Program Director offered Remy a devilish grin, and the nervous man shakily made his exit.

  He touched the glass of the picture frame sitting closest to him. It featured the same young man, however, in this picture he was standing with his friend and fellow soldier, Jason Eriksson. The program director stared at Jason for a full minute before pulling his shaking hand away, and he let a single tear fall to land on the shining eagle adorning his breast pocket.

  “Yes Captain, you have much to atone for.”

  Chapter 1

  Life’s a Beach

  Captain Jason Eriksson stared north across the turquoise water, where Buck Island waded like a slumbering leviathan in the Caribbean Sea. He scratched at the scar on his chin, his two-day old beard rough as sandpaper. The weather was hot, too hot. He remembered it being warm back when he was a boy, but not this damn warm. Standing on the back deck of his million-dollar beach house alone, he couldn’t help but laugh. The laughter was maniacal, with mirth of the insane flavor. His voice carried with it a contradictory edge; a bittersweet wisdom.

  No matter where you go, there you are.

  The adage played in his head like a relentless mosquito at dusk. His skin itched as though it were infested with no-see-ums, although he hadn’t been on the beach in three days. He lowered his sunglasses to his face and stared at the slowly setting sun. It reminded him of the explosion on Lunar 1. With a sigh he tipped back the last of his Pacifica and drank it down. Despite the heat, the beer was still cold—he didn’t drink slow enough for them to get warm these days.

  “Sir,” said Pal 2000 with a voice laced with concern. “Should you be drinking so much?”

  “Shut up, Pal,” Jason told the robot.

  “Sir, I do not mean to be a nuisance, but I am obligated to warn you of health concerns and report them back to your supervisors.”

  “I’m retired. I don’t have supervisors, unless you mean these awesome shades I’m wearing.”

  The robot cocked his head to the side, the display expressing confusion with an emoji. “Sir, was that an attempt at a joke?”

  “Ah, go stick it up your oil hole,” said Jason.

  “I don’t have an oil hole, sir. But rather, it is more like a—”

  “If you don’t stop talking, I’m going to use your ass for target practice,” said Ja
son, waving around the pistol in his hand.

  “As you know, any harm purposely done to my unit will result in monetary fines and fees. I would advise against—”

  “They can put it on my tab,” said Jason.

  Pal 2000 sighed, which just pissed Jason off more. He glared at the six-foot-tall blue and gray robot that had been pestering him the last seven days, and he wondered how long it would remain operational at the bottom of the ocean.

  If he tied the arms and legs together…

  “I am sorry that I am causing you so much anger,” said Pal 2000, nodding affably, his face changing to one of concern. “That is not my intention. My primary goal is to help you live a healthy, happy, and fruitful life, and—”

  “And to report everything I do back to Veteran Affairs. You’re a snitch, Pal, and nobody likes a snitch.”

  “If you do not attempt to harm yourself or others, then there is nothing to snitch about.” Pal 2000 pointed at the sky like a professor making a point. “So, as they say, the ball is in your court, sir.”

  “Go get recycled,” said Jason and lit up a joint.

  “Perhaps you would like to add to your daily log,” said the robot, walking over to him with a friendly digital smile.

  Jason glanced at the screen that acted as the robot’s face, and the cartoonish expression disappeared, replaced by a thumbs-up emoji.

  “I told you not to use emojis. What do I look like, a fifteen-year-old girl?”

  “Pardon me, sir, but the demographic for veterans who enjoy emojis is 89 percent. Perhaps they will grow on you.”

  Jason flicked the cherry off his joint, calmly stashed the roach in his pocket, and picked up Pal by the crotch and armpit. The bucket of bolts was at least 125 pounds, but Jason hadn’t missed a workout in twenty-five years.

  “I don’t know who the hell you’re surveying, but they’re a bunch of dipshits.”

  “Sir, I advise against thiiisss!” said Pal, as Jason threw him over the balcony rail.

  He wiped his hands together and glanced up at the full moon, which had risen only a few hours ago and now stalked the sun, hiding behind lazy clouds and waiting to steal the day away. The scar that had been carved diagonally across the moon gave it a menacing appearance. It looked like a reptilian eye to Jason, and he turned from the disturbing image and headed through the slowly swaying silk curtains to the bar.

  “You know, Pal,” he yelled over his shoulder. “I had planned on retiring here with Melissa and Ember. Had dreamed about it my entire career. And now, here I am: wifeless, daughterless, and the proud owner of a lonely little mansion in paradise, with only a bucket of bolts to keep me company.”

  “I’ll be right up, sir,” came Pal’s voice over the speakers, disrupting the music.

  Jason rolled his eyes as he poured himself a margarita, put his elbows up on the bar, and drank half the glass. He stared at his reflection in the large mirror, partially obstructed by every variety of rum that could be found on St. Croix and the surrounding islands. Once, he had scoffed at the old-timers talking about life slipping by faster the older you got, but now, he could only laugh at his youthful naivete. One minute he had graduated college with dreams of changing the world, and the next minute he was a two-decade veteran of WWIII, whose every dream was a nightmare.

  Pal 2000 came up the stairs with a cactus protruding from behind his right knee joint, and a flower wrapped around his antenna. “I am happy to say that your actions have only cost you 450 U.N. credits. My unit just needs a good buffering.” The digital eye winked.

  “Well, don’t expect me to buff your unit. I don’t swing that way.”

  “Swing that way, sir?”

  Jason tossed back the rest of his drink and made himself another strong batch of margarita, adding limes from the tree that he and Ember had planted just five years ago...

  God dammit, has it been that long?

  Jason stared at the mirror, searching for something…anything. He hardly recognized himself these days. The thought caused him to chuckle at the pathetic cliché, but his reflection cringed at the sound. Crow’s-feet had begun to overstay their welcome at the corners of his eyes, eyes that were puffy and bloodshot. His once short cropped brown hair was now shaggy and unkempt, and along with his salt and brown sugar beard, suggested a mellow surfer look that was the envy of other men his age, but a stark contradiction to how he felt. His body still looked like that of an athletic twentysomething, but his bones felt their age. Sore as he often was at forty, he wondered what it must feel like to be eighty.

  He picked up the razor from the marble counter and imagined cutting through his own wrist. If he was going to bleed out he was going to do it right, and in the ocean. It was better to be eaten by sharks than worms, after all—and he would probably take Pal with him, just for the hell of it.

  Jason laughed to himself, and he noticed how Pal’s digital expression changed to one of concern.

  “Sir, would you like to add to your daily log?” came the faux-friendly digital voice.

  Jason swayed on his stool. With a shrug, he tossed back a shot of tequila, and then another.

  “Sir …”

  “I never truly understood Melissa,” Jason found himself saying.

  Pal 2000 perked to attention.

  “Losing Ember was hard…the hardest thing I have ever endured,” said Jason, his throat constricting. He choked down the emotion. “WWIII was a piece of fucking cake compared to losing Em. But I don’t understand how Melissa could have done it.”

  He turned the razor this way and that, catching the reflection of the Caribbean sun inches from the horizon.

  “I do not understand self-termination either,” said Pal 2000, in a voice both soft and full of understanding, but he shut up when Jason pointed the gun at him.

  One of Jason’s favorite songs, “Margaritaville”, began on the sound system, and with a thin smile, he brought the razor down.

  “Sir …”

  Jason chopped up the cocaine.

  He carved out five, three-inch lines and glanced at Pal, holding out the rolled up hundred-dollar bill. “Want a bump?” he asked Pal 2000.

  The robot shook his bucket of a head, his face becoming a frown.

  “Then shut the fuck up.”

  Bill to nose, Jason bent and snorted the first line up the right nostril.

  “Sir, cocaine is a class A controlled—”

  Jason squeezed the trigger slowly and shot Pal 2000 in his digital forehead. The robot staggered back and held up defensive hands. The screen blinked in and out sporadically, having locked on a face full of surprise, and Jason couldn’t help but laugh. He snorted the second line up the left nostril, and half of the third up the right again. He smudged the remaining third line and rubbed it on his teeth before bellowing the chorus along with Jimmy Buffet and raising the tequila bottle in salute to the sun.

  On the TV the news was covering another royal wedding, while on another screen the U.N. was celebrating the induction of the U.S., Russia, and North Korea, all countries which had been central to the strife of the ’20s and ’30s. He looked at the screen with disgust. The world had gone to shit a long time ago. Why had he decided to save it?

  “S-s-sir,” the robot stuttered and twitched, that same surprised expression locked on his digital face. “You-you-you have done considerable da-da-damage to my u-u-unit, and I’m afrai-frai-fraid that it will c-c-cost you—”

  “Put it on my tab!” Jason yelled and emptied the clip into the bucket of bolts.

  He turned from the twitching robot and staggered out to the balcony. His eyes were drawn to the moon, and the memory of the lunar explosion flashed in his mind, along with blood, slit wrists, and a child with pale skin hooked up to too many machines.

  Jason groaned, and the groan turned into a primordial growl.

  “Some people claim that there’s a woman to blame, but I know…It’s my own damn fault!” he bellowed before returning to the bar to retrieve the bottle. He whirled towa
rd the front door with the tequila bottle in hand and lit a cigar, one of many he always kept in his floral-print shirt pocket—yeah, he was that guy.

  In the garage, an ivory white 1974 Chevelle waited. Stripped of all the bullshit government safety regulations and self-driving capabilities, the White Bitch, as he fondly called her, waited to eat the pavement.

  Chapter 2

  Burgers in Paradise

  The sun set on St. Croix as Jason headed west toward Christiansted from Coakley Bay. He passed a tiny Japanese shit box electric car and flipped the bird to the two morons inside, who sat facing the wrong way, sipping on umbrella drinks. He wondered what the car’s computer would do if he side-swiped the ride.

  Suddenly, Pal 2000’s face came to life on the halo screen on the side of the tourists’ car. “Sir, I highly recommend that you slow dow—”

  Jason cranked the wheel, smashing the screen on the side of the shit box with his metal monster. “Welcome to fucking paradise!” he yelled at the shocked tourists.

  The electric car predictably braked and pulled to the left side of the road, before exploding with a puff of safety balls. Jason laid on his horn as he passed. He turned up the radio, which was linked to the house and still playing Jimmy Buffett. “Burgers in Paradise” screamed from the speakers. He pushed the car to its limits. Something he enjoyed about St. Croix: he could get away with just enough to have a damn lot of fun, and he always tempted fate. After another two miles of winding island roads, he pulled over at a burger joint that was aptly named.

  The owner of Burgers in Paradise, one Bobby Bishop, rushed out when he saw Jason park. He looked a bit like a cross between a Deadhead and a beach bum. The man always wore tie-dyed T-shirts and a fishing hat, and his rugged beard hung to his chest. His apron hung down over his large stomach and attached to his wrist was an automatic release insulin system. He was the sole proprietor of the burger shack, and the joint was popping. A lot of the locals were out for a bite to eat, as well as the usual set of tourists about this time of year.

  Jason licked his lips when he thought of the taste of the Paradise burger paired with his favorite margarita.