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Nightmares in Plato City Nov 26th, 2001 Thomas Mason moved slowly along the wall with his rifle close to his chest. It was dark in the hallway, and all he could see was the faint shimmering of shadows in the moonlit corridors. Breathing slowly, he inched towards an open doorway and popped his head in for a quick look. Nothing. Mason took another deep breath and swiveled around the door jamb, extending his rifle forward. In an instant, the rifle was bluntly knocked from his hands, and a thin, sharp metallic garotte dug into his throat. Mason gasped for breath, but nothing happened, and the pain seared into his brain as he struggled for air. He threw his weight back and placed his foot behind the leg of something large, hairy, and smelly. It was far too late to grasp for the garotte, so he swung his arm up and around as he twisted his upper body and encircled the head of the beast behind him. Mason twisted vigorously with his arm as they fell hard towards the floor, and he made sure all his weight went into the twist just before they hit. As they landed, the garotte released and Mason lay still. The creature underneath him was motionless, so he slid off slowly and rolled over onto his back, coughing and holding his throat. A thin line of blood oozed through his fingers, but the damage was nonfatal. Mason felt his rifle under his arm and picked it up. "End simulation," he coughed hoarsely, and as the lights came up, he walked briskly to the infirmary.   * * * * *   Working security at the Plato City Mall was mindless and boring. Mason got up each morning, such as it was on Luna, in empty repetition, put on his uniform, and began his daily rounds. The mall was actually a 300 meter long cylinder, half below ground level and half above, providing a breathtaking view of the crater wall, five kilometers away. When the sun was low, the edges of the crater wall lit up into a beautiful curtain of jagged light and spires. Mason spent ten hours every day, with an hour for lunch, walking up and down the center corridor, watching for shoplifters and reckless juveniles who would occasionally harass the shoppers. After another non-eventful morning, Mason joined his friend in the food court for lunch. Harold Pittman was a maintenance technician for the shutters and dielectric crystals on lexan that moderated the harsh lunar sunlight. Pittman noticed the bandage around Mason's neck. "You've been war gaming again," he said absently, munching on a beef sandwich. Juice dribbled onto his napkin. "Oh, yes," Mason said practically beaming. "I kicked some serious ass last night. Damn, I'm good." "You coulda been killed. That's scary stuff you do." "Scary, man, scary." Mason smiled. "Why do you do it?" Pittman asked. "Self-defense mastery is the highest form of reverence for your body, my friend. Look. See those young women over there?" Mason pointed to three Luna born teenagers who had been shopping and were engaged in serious gossip as they stood in line for lunch. "They were born here. Look at those bodies. Two meters tall, stick thin, and maybe forty kilos. Forty-five max. I could put my ring finger and thumb around their forearms. They are so weak, I don't think they could even do a single push-up in one-sixth g." "So what? They're beautiful," Pittman said, gazing with considerable appreciation at long, flowing hair and high-heeled boots. "Besides, you were born on Earth. You have the body of a brown bear." "I just look overweight, my friend. Wanna arm wrestle?" Pittman wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I think you're just resentful. Those girls wouldn't give you the time of day, and you know it." "Who needs them? They're pathetic." "Well, you have to admire the wealth and beauty, no? Don't they turn you on?" "Turn me on? Hell. They're just part of a brainless, snob crowd that rushes in here every day blowing hoards of cash. None of them have a job or seem to need one. They parade in with their boyfriends, wearing next to nothing, and walk out with huge shopping bags. They haven't a clue." "A clue? About what?" "About ... the ... dangers of the universe." "Seems awfully peaceful to me right here." "The moon is snuggled close to home. One day, mark my words, we're gonna get our asses kicked." "My friend," Pittman sighed, "I am sure you'll be right there to help us out." "Choke on your sandwich. See if I care."   * * * * *   The afternoon dragged on as Mason strolled up and down the mall looking for anything suspicious. He glanced at his watch. Another two hours of mind boggling boredom to go. Then he saw it. One of the young women he'd seen at lunch was near the front of Star-Mart, nervously stuffing some chocolates into her small purse. Mason stopped in his tracks and moved smartly towards the woman, pulling out his pistol as he walked and circled around behind her. "Having dessert, are we?" The woman was so startled, she actually lurched up into the air a few centimeters and landed slightly off balance, dropping her purse. Mason snatched it out of mid air and opened it. "Hey! You can't do that! Give me my purse!" the woman shrieked. Her voice hurt Mason's ears. "You haven't paid for these chocolates, young woman." "And I haven't left the store yet, either! Have I?" Mason brought his right hand up and briskly clipped the woman on the side of the head with his pistol. Her eyes rolled, and she stumbled backwards. Mason moved forward quickly and gave her a nudge with his hip, making sure she landed out in the concourse. In the slow motion of one-sixth g, she landed lightly and glided towards a small fountain. She lay motionless, breathing shallowly.   * * * * * Andy Wilkes walked into his office and observed Thomas Mason sitting across from his desk. He walked around it, sat down and pulled his chair up tightly, sitting up very straight. He opened a file on his desktop display and gazed at it for a few seconds. Then he looked at Mason sternly. "Miss Ethridge isn't gonna file charges and neither are we." "Good," Mason smiled. Wilkes peered at Mason and made direct eye contact. He was not a happy man and he let it show. "You can dispense with the smirk on your face." Mason sat up in his chair a little straighter and squinted. Might be trouble. Time to sober up. Wilkes continued. "There were no witnesses, so we have to take your word that she was shoplifting." Mason, sensed that a "but" was coming, so he sat quietly and did not try to interrupt. "But. But, your excessive use of force in this case leaves me only two choices. One. I can send you back to Earth. You can spend the rest of your career guarding warehouses in Ankara...." Wilkes let that sink in for a few seconds. "Or?" Mason asked. "Or we can try a little bioscience attitude adjustment." "Huh?" "I'm looking at your personnel profile here. Interviews with acquaintances. Late night visits to the infirmary. Level ten war games. No family. No pets. An, uh, interesting weapons collection. I don't like what I'm seeing here." "Interviews?" "Yep." Mason gulped. They must have talked to Pittman, he thought. "Can I think about it?" Wilkes sighed. "Yeah. Take an hour. Take a full hour. I'm a busy man."   * * * * * Mason woke up in a cot, feeling tired, cold and hungry. He pushed around a bit, trying to pull the covers up, and then realized that there were no covers. He shivered and rolled up into a fetal position, trying to decide whether to sleep on or figure out why his bare feet were so cold. The hard wooden edge of a rifle butt struck him in his stomach, and he winced, coughing. "Stand up! Now!" Mason looked up to see an armed soldier, ready to ram the butt of that rifle into his ribs. He jumped out of the cot and stood up, crouching and shaking. The floor was ice cold. He was prodded out into a courtyard full of mud. His toes squished in the goo as he was pushed along. Before him, was young man, his son, tied to a post. What appeared to be an officer strolled over to them. "This is your son, is he not?" Mason caught the eyes of his boy, saw tears rolling down his cheeks. "Yes, that is my son." The officer walked up to the boy, pulled out a side arm, and cocked it. He placed it against the boy's temple. "NO!" Mason screamed. He had to turn his head when the pistol fired. Then he charged the officer, reaching for the man's throat. He heard another loud shot and a sharp warmth in his chest. His brain surged and his vision blurred. He felt the cold, wet mud in his face for only a second, and then everything went black.   * * * * * The sun was high overhead, muted in whitish and golden tones against the black sky. The mall stretched out before Mason's eyes, aglow with decorations and lights. A ten meter holographic Christmas tree stood in the center of the mall surrounded by a genuine ice rink. Children stumbled and staggered as they flopped around on the ice. Some of the older teenagers who were better skaters managed to achieve easy quadruple axels in the liquid slow motion of Luna's gravity. One landed, but fell and slid into some other children. They laughed as they fell over each other, teasing and playing. Mason's mind seemed calmer and more focused than he could ever remember. He didn't know why. The spirit of the Christmas season made him feel happy and content. As he walked down the mall towards the tree, he saw a young couple struggling with packages and a small son who was misbehaving. The wife dropped a shopping bag as she lurched for the boy, trying to keep him from running onto the ice. Mason picked up the bag and held it, waiting for the woman to reclaim her child. "Thank you," she said as she came back, slightly out of breath and clutching the boy. She pushed her long brown hair back from her eyes and looked straight at Mason. "That was nice of you." "Glad I could help," Mason said, handing her the shopping bag. As the couple walked away, he watched them with considerable concentration. They were Luna born, as was their son. The man and woman struggled to hold onto their son, hold hands, and still carry their packages. Mason reflected that it would be good to have a wife. And maybe a son. Someone to play skyball with and wrestle with in the park.   * * * * *   Light streamed through the stained glass, gently illuminating the sanctuary in pale reds and blues, as Mason and the priest sat talking quietly in the front most wooden pew. "You live in poverty. That's stupid," Mason insisted. "I live in poverty in order to practice," the priest said calmly. "Practice what?" "To practice not wanting what others have." "Why not just take what you want?" Mason asked. The priest smiled. "Once one is accustomed to deprivation, it no longer has the power to make one resentful. Resentment breeds hate. And arrogance." "That's nonsense. Everyone wants to live a good life." "Ah, but you see, the task is to distinguish between a good life and greed. I do live a good life you see. Look at my car. It's a 1993 Taurus. It gets me around. It's safe. Has a heater and a radio. The rectory is peaceful and comfortable. What else do I need?" "You have no ambition. That's so lame." "My ambition, son, is to discover the proper limits of my ambition." "Do all the members of this church believe that?" The priest smiled again and closed his eyes gently. "Not yet. Perhaps in time." Three hours later, Mason stood next to the priest and watched his fiancée walk down the aisle with her father. The sight took his breath away, and he stood transfixed, feeling happier than he'd ever been. Suddenly, a side door burst open and two dark figures rolled four grenades along the floor. The sickening sound of heavy metal rolling on the hard wood floor, reverberating, made Mason's heart race. He whirled and grabbed for two of the grenades, tossing one out the door before it slammed shut. The second hit the door with a thud, fell to the floor, and rolled back towards him. Mason heard screaming, and turned to look for his fiancée who stood frozen in terror. Her father had fallen on the third grenade, but where was the fourth? Then there were deafening explosions and everything went black. Mason woke up shaking with his shirt drenched in sweat. He got into the shower and under a hot stream of water for a long time before he could even think about getting dressed and going to work.   * * * * *   Christmas Eve in the mall was coming to end end. As midnight approached. one by one, the shoppers left and the lights were turned down. Mason walked along the mall, making sure the shopkeepers were shutting down successfully and closing their shutters. As he passed by Star-Mart, one of the sales women saw him and tossed him a piece of chocolate. It sailed serenely towards him, and Mason plucked it out of the air. He smiled. "Thank you miss." "Merry Christmas," she yelled. "Merry Christmas to you!" Mason took the escalator to the upper level where he could see the sun setting over the edge of the crater's rim. As the sun's intensity diminished, the dielectric polarizer lightened and stars began to emerge, burning steadily. As he gazed quietly, he saw a burst of light, and thought for a moment that it was a nova, a Christmas omen. Then he realized that it was one of the starships lighting its engines, headed for one of those stars. Mason looked over his shoulder, high in the sky, and gazed at the Earth cradled in wisps of blue and white. So alone. So naked. So beautiful. Thomas Mason suddenly realized that he was going to spend Christmas alone. And then, he thought, perhaps being alone was not such a good idea, considering the nightmares he'd been having lately. Perhaps he would pay a visit to one of the churches. The Lutheran church was especially beautiful. So was the Catholic church. But any one would do. He didn't think he could endure another one of the nightmares this soon, so he took a seat on the observation couch and stayed up all night, admiring the stars, starship launches, and the green hills of Earth. In the early morning, he walked to the Lutheran church. Who could know what he might find there? Copyright 2001 by John Martellaro, All rights reserved. Quantum Threads banner artwork by Tracy Haynes. This is a work of fiction. All people, places, entities, and events are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. About the Author John Martellaro lives in Colorado at 2,800 meters above sea level with a Ph.D. wife and two cats, Nikki and Data. He holds a B.S. in Astrophysics and an M.S. in Physics. His hobbies, include amateur astronomy, downhill skiing, bicycling, and listening to piano solos. His personal Macs are a B&W G3/400 with a flat screen Studio Display and a TiBook.  The Quantum Log .	"