Shet pulled off her helmet, swung the oxygen tanks from her back and quickly stripped out of her light weight suit, pulling a well worn of tracksuit in its place.

“Patch it through to my room will you Davey.”

Shet grabbed a glass of water on her way through, setting it on the tiny night stand beside her bed before she turned on the tele-communication unit embedded in the wall above her desk. She attached a small receiver to the top of her tracksuit top and lent against her pillow facing the screen.

“Shet Harmon.”

There was a hiss of static and a screen of snow, until slowly the face of the Director of Lunar Explorations emerged from the blizzard, pixelated, as though his face was constructed from a million separate tiny unique images. Someone at uni had a picture like that on their dorm wall and it had fascinated her.

“Good morning Shet.”

“It’s evening here Sir, we’ve just come in from the claim.”

“I wont beat around the bush Shet. You’ve been requested back here at head quarters in New Brisbane, as of the end of the week.”

“No. Please Langely don’t pull me from this job. I’m … we’re this close to validating the deposit. We’re drilling a few more cores and then I’ll come back. Me, the cores, projections – the whole thing. We could have the Rectors up and running by the middle of next year.”

“That’s great news Shet, but this is above me. I’m sorry, it can’t wait until you’re finished. This request comes from as high up as it goes. You’re expected back in New Brisbane on the 05:00 transport Thursday.”

“What if I say no.”

“Not even you have the balls to say no to the Mayor Shet.”

“The Mayor? The fuck does he want with me? I didn’t even vote for him.

Shet kicked out at her chair with a foot, grateful that her monitor was only a one way unit and that the kick missed its mark. She didn’t think at this point it really mattered whether she’d scanned a vote for Tennyson or not.

“Are you guys unhappy with what is going on up here?”

“To the contrary – we’re very pleased with the progress that your unit is making.”

“Why are you letting me be ordered back?”

“You’ve been put forward for a special assignment and it’s beyond our control.”

“I don’t want a special project – I want my project,” after a moment she added, “I like it here Langley.”

“And you’re good there Shet. So good that you’ve got the attention of the Mayor.”

Shet signed and threw herself back into the pillow

“Anything else?”

“Naught. Whatever this is about, the Mayor is keeping it close to his chest. We’ve only just found out about it now from his personal assistant”

“What’s the price of coffee down there these days?”

“Only 10NB’s. You’ll be right with all that back pay due when you get home. I’ll send you more information when it comes through.”

“Sure,” she said, sounding as uncommitted as she’d even sounded in her life. All she really wanted was to scream that New Brisbane was not her home, why did everyone make that assumption. She’d decided years ago that the Moon was her home and was just waiting for it to become the next City State so she could take out citizenship there instead.

“This isn’t my doing Shet – just so we’re clear on that.”

“Sure Langley – I’m getting that loud and clear.”

Shet leant forward to terminate the transmission. New Brisbane in Spring was the last place that she wanted to be. They were on the brink of determining the exact size of the Helium-3 deposit on their claim, which would allow them to project the size of the mining operation and the output potential and what that would mean in kilowatts of energy for New Brisbane. It was the worst possible timing. Worse the Jacaranda trees, the periwinkle blossoms and the unsettling scent lacing the warm Spring air.

“I’ll be leaving on the Thursday transport,” Shet broadcast when she finally emerged from her sleeping quarters and sat down at the table with the rest of the exploration team.

The men stopped devouring their quick-heat meals for a moment and looked at her with a mixture of shock and envy. Shet’s face was devoid of emotion and she announced it as if she as just ducking into the ablution’s cubicle

“How come?” Davey asked, skewering a piece of carrot with his fork , both hanging in midair while he waited for an answer..

“I have no idea. Apparently the Director wants to see me about a special assignment.”

“Who’s replacing you?”

“Has someone couped the project?”

“I’m not being replaced. This is my project – I mean, this is our project,” Shet leant back in her chair laconically. “Just because I’m going to speak with the Mayor about an assignment doesn’t mean I’m going to take it. I’m happy up here with you drop kicks. I’m putting Hawkins in charge while I’m away.”

Hawkins grinned and slapped Davey on the back good naturedly. Lagos pushed a plate in front of her – fresh from the microwave oven.

“And we’re happy up here with you too boss. Just so you know.”

Shet smiled but the crew knew it was forced. She was normally talkative, using the evening meal times to debrief the day’s activities, but tonight she just played fork hockey with the peas on the plate, excusing herself early.

That night Shet slept badly, her dreams invaded by Jacaranda trees and the cloying spring scent that wrapped it’s tendrils around her throat and squeezed the life from her.

_____ “The candidate will be leaving the moon for here Thursday morning.”

The Director looked up from his computer screen, his personal assistant Bronson who remained standing, with a look on his face that told the Director he was oscillating between staying standing or sitting down uninvited. The Director didn’t appreciate his morning routine being interrupted by someone who should have known better and made no effort to hide his aggravation. He spent another minute reading his computer screen and then closed down the news page he’d been reading with his morning coffee.

“I’m not happy about this,” the Director said, draining the thick dregs from his coffee cup and pushing it across his desk, loving the double meaning that would be lost on the HR rep.

Bronson made peace with his decision to stand and squared his shoulders, holding a manila folder to his side.

“You asked me to find the best person for the job and the best person happens to be a female. I don’t have to remind you of the equal opportunity policies -”

“Equal opportunities my arse. This is not a job for a chick.”

“Sir, she’s not a chick. She’s a highly qualified science and field operative, who has had terrestrial and lunar experience. She’s also got a degree in 20th Century Pop Culture.”

“She’s a chick – she’s get breasts, she’s a chick.”

Bronson flinched at the crassness of The Director, something he had never became immune to and it always seemed to hit him like a sly left hook after weeks of smooth charismatic diatribe from his boss.

“As it turns out sir, she had a complete hysterectomy at the age of 21, so while she’s got, ummm, breasts-“

“Point taken.”

Bronson handed across the manila folder, attempting to keep his hand steady. He hated his boss knowing just how terrified he was of him.

“New Brisbane has no other qualified candidate sir. And might I hazard to add, I doubt if the terms of the contract were different that there would be anyone else in the UESA that would be qualified.”

“Thank you for your opinion Bronson, but I’m The Mayor and I say who is and isn’t qualified to represent us for this special project. I want you to go back to your computer and your database, want you to schmooze those idiots up at HR and find me a list of three other potential applicants – men. And I want them on my desk before morning tea.”

Bronson paled and fought the compulsion to chew on a finger nail.

“I understand sir.”

__________ The call came in as she was waiting of the platform of the SpacePort transit junction.

She pulled the pod and ear piece from her pocket.

“You’ve landed?”

“I’m just waiting for the New Brisbane connection to bring me back in.”

“The meeting has been cancelled.”

“What! When?”

“I just got the call then. The Mayor has asked for more candidates to be put forward.”

“This is internal sabotage. Who is trying to destroy my projects?

The line went quiet and Shet regretted her outburst.

“It’s the fancy of the Mayor. Nothing else. I assure you of that Shet.” She hated herself for being paranoid. It was the same when she got to the end of every project – crazy fear that someone would snatch it all from her. Totally irrational because it had never actually happened to her.

“I’ll just wait out here for the next transport back then.”

“They’ve asked that you stay, until the meeting can be rescheduled.”

“Langley, I’d hate to state the bloody obvious but I didn’t fucking ask to be interviewed for this secret mission. I just want to go back to the moon. I want to go back to my team.”

“Take a few days, relax.”

“Relax isn’t in my vernacular.”

“Make it. I’ll work on it. Three days.”

“Three days?”

“Three days.”

In three days she would have blown all her fuel credits and then she would be truly ready to go home to the moon.

___________ Kyle stared at the manila folder on his desk. The HR drone hadn’t bothered to bring him the file on anything but paper. He’d at least made an effort to know this simple fact. The only type of file Kyle ever felt safe with was one he could shred by hand.

He picked up the file. HARMON, Shet #14645 (F) How was it that Bronson managed to find a woman? How could he fuck up something as relatively simple as this.

The Beyond Consortium project was the biggest thing to happen to him in his career and the HR department had offered up a woman. Bigger than becoming Mayor! He could not believe that there was not one single suitably qualified male in the entire state of New Brisbane. What the fuck where they calling themselves the Smart State for.

The Beyond Consortium had already tried to shaft him once and this was the last type of drama he needed. He’d agreed, along with a majority of counsellors, after some gentle persuasion, to lease land adjoining the Space Port to the Beyond Consortium. And for a nominal price in exchange for a personal, but non disclosed share in the consortium and a seat on the Director’s board to give him an inside line on any developments. Last year the largest radio telescope on Earth was completed a year ahead of schedule, amid much fan fare. His name had appeared in the News Feeds and he’d gloated at his foresight.

It was only through the work of his mole that he’d found out about the transmission from the Planet, tentatively named, 547, and muscled his way in on the First Contact project. He wasn’t sure how they intended to keep it from him, but it had backfired on the bastards and nasty negotiations had ensued as he fought to ensure that the person who undertook the First Contact mission was a Citizen of New Brisbane. He’d dreamed of his smiling face on the News Feeds, farewelling the first ever Earthling into the great beyond. The first ever manned mission beyond the solar system.

And that was just it – a manned mission, not a womaned mission. Who had ever heard of anything so ludicrous? But he had to come up with someone. If this was the best candidate – this woman – then he’d have to find an alternate. He was Kyle Bertram Tennyson, Mayor of New. He had given the people of New Brisbane hope after the environmental apocalypse. He’d rebuilt the shattered city and he was God to his citizens. And he always got what he wanted – one way or another.

He pushed his chair back, put his feet up on the desk and rifled through the print outs in the folder. Top of her class in both geology and engineering, including an apparent prestigious prize that he’d never heard of; work experience on the Lunar Exploration Development Team, junior position on the first Lunar Deployment – rapid advancement, exploration leader and now project leader for the Helium-3 Mine. He flicked through to the personal history that had been compiled. Single, heterosexual (though no partners listed) and next of kin listed as a friend from university. No family. From a quick perusal of her financial documents and personnel file she spent less than a month each year on Earth – mostly on business. It seemed she hadn’t had a holiday of any sort in the last six years. Medical files listed surgery to remove uterus, fallopian tubes and ovaries at aged 21 with notes that it was not medically indicated surgery. The second interesting note was that she had been involved in an undetermined accident at age 17 and had lost all memories prior to the accident.

Kyle looked through the rest of he file for an online access code for Shet Harmon’s file.

“Is that you Bronson?”

“Yes sir.”

“There’s no photo accompanying that file that you gave me.”

“It’s standard procedure sir not to include photographs.”

“Well this isn’t a standard procedure.”

“I can give you an online access code sir.”

“You must be a mind reader Bronson.”

Kyle scribbled the access code on the inside of the manila folder, logged back into the server and eventually found his way to the HR hub, punched in Shet Harmon’s name and the access code. He waited impatiently, as his computer accessed the file. From the menu he opened the photograph folder, drumming his fingers on the desk top again, as the photo emerged, from the top downwards on his screen.

He stared in disbelief at the two dimensional image that smiled back at him. It simply wasn’t possible, but there she was, years older than the last time he’d laid eyes on her. But it was most definitely her. Kyle felt chilled to the bone and his stomach turned.

It was Sophia.

______ The pod rang and Pietersen reached for his ear piece. The tremors made it difficult to pick the receiver up and to put it in his ear socket. He would have called out to Samara for help but she was in the shower. Eventually he succeeded and turned his attention to connecting the call. His finger jabbed inaccurately in the direction of the answer button, finally making contact and the line opened.

“Pietersen!”

Pietersen’s saliva congealed and caught in his throat at the sound of the voice at the other end of the call. It was such a struggle to control his fine motor skills that he never bothered to pick the communication pod up to look for the incoming ID on calls, not that it would have mattered. He was certain, if he knew the Director, that it this call would be routed through clandestine communication hubs before the signal terminated in his ear.

Pietersen cleared his throat and in a clear voice said, “Good morning Kyle.”

“Maybe where you are.”

“I see that you still haven’t managed to cultivate any of the social panache of your predecessor was so renown for.”

Pietersen smiled. He knew the mere mention of the former Director would make Kyle fume. It was the only Achilles’ heel he’d ever found in the new Director and he’d exploited it at every opportunity.

“We have a problem.”

“You mean, you have a problem.”

The qualification hung in the air between them, as pregnant as if the two men were exchanging spats across a table, single malt whisky in hand. Pietersen gripped the side of the chair in an effort to control the involuntary spasming of the muscles in is arm.

Stress exacerbated his condition and bought on seizures. That’s what had pushed him into an early retirement, despite what the rumours said. He had sworn to himself that he would work to his last breathe to fix what he’d created, even if it was in a self funded lab in isolation. But in the end, the only enemy he faced off against was the weakness of his own biology. A rare genetically inherited motor neurone disease for which there was no cure.

And then there were the memories – memories and feelings he would never be able to extricate himself from, like he’d been able to do for the others in his lab. It had all started out with the best of intentions.

“Sophia has turned up.”

Pietersen snapped his mind back to the conversation at hand and concentrated on manoeuvring his finger to depress a button on the arm of his chair. He began to move slowly out onto the balcony, the specially designed wheels making the transition from the high polished wooden floor boards to the lower slatted balcony with ease. The chair, programmed to position Pietersen at his favourite vantage point over the ocean, stopped. A cool breeze had sprung up. Pietersen tracked the flight of some migratory sea birds, riding the thermals created by White Island in the distance. A tiny wisp of sulphurous smoke spiralled from the active volcano.

“Did you hear what I said Pietersen.”

“I’m not deaf Kyle. You don’t need to yell down the satellite link.”

Pietersen took a moment to reorder his thoughts before he spoke.

“Who has she turned up as?”

“A scientist – she’s been recommended for a position on a top secret project I’m part of.”

“Hmmm – isn’t that interesting? What name does she go under.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“It became my business when you called me.”

“Let’s just say there are very obvious traces of her former identity in her new name.”

“Are you going to tell me anything.”

There was a long pause and Pietersen heard the Director take a couple of deep breaths. Anger management strategies finally implemented? “Is it possible that she remembers anything?”

Pietersen whistled out through his teeth, because he knew it annoyed The Director almost as much as mentioning the old Director.

“I told you before I undertook the procedure on her that I could not guarantee the outcome.” Pietersen kept his voice calm and on an even timbre. “As a female, her biochemistry was different enough to create an infinite array of alternate pathways, synaptic connections and emotional responses, none of which were ever been mapped or observed before the procedure on her. And as Sophia disappeared before she received a release from me, I have no idea what happened in her cerebral cortex in the week between me seeing and scanning her last, and her vanishing.

“The procedure was only ever meant to be carried out on males because I was able to control for the unique variables of the male biochemistry and to predict any of the deviations – because I studied them for 20 years. And this was at the beginning of the third phase of separation of both memories and emotions – of tabla rasa. It’s was never a perfect science on males, even at the end and at best it was an imperfect science on women.”

“Is that a yes or no?”

“It’s an “I don’t know’ Kyle and that is the best I can offer. It’s the same I offered you 12 years ago when against my better judgement I did the procedure as a favour for you.”

Kyle snorted in derision.

“I’m sending a team in to bring you back here.”

“I’m retired.”

“Not if I say so.”

“I wont be manipulated by you again Kyle.”

“You realise that only thing that stands between you and The Hague is me.”

Pietersen’s body convulsed violently, briefly, leaving him breathless and weak.

“What if Sophia remembers – what then Kyle?” He was fighting to keep his breathing steady and his voice unchanged, but his state was deteriorating fast.

“One indiscretion is much like any other Pietersen. You know that.”

“You’d have her killed!”

“And that bothers you – you of all people.” Kyle laughed.

“You took my research, you took my methods and you twisted them to your own ends.”

“And you let me. I never heard you say no Pietersen. You wanted to operate on Sophia as much as I wanted you to.”

Pietersen could feel the tremors building to a dangerous crescendo in his emaciated body and the erratic beating of his heart. The last warning before the grande male style attack struck him down. He was well aware that in the advanced stages of his illness a seizure of this magnitude was likely to be fatal. That didn’t bother Pietersen. Death was a fortuitous bypass from whatever Kyle was involved in. And it was piss him off. He tried to smile but he’d already begun to lose control of those muscles.

“Sa-ma-ra,” Pietersen babbled, as the muscles in his mouth and throat began to weaken, and he saliva began to pour from his mouth.

His granddaughter rushed out onto the balcony and knelt beside the motorised wheel chair.

“De-stroy ev-ev -ery-th-ing Samara,”

“I’ll get your medication Granddad.”

Pietersen loved her sing song voice and the cool steel of her nerve. The lyrical pairing of his native South African tongue and her Kiwi heritage had been music to his ears in the years since he’d settled in New Zealand’s Bay of Plenty. She’d willing come to care for him and asked no questions.

Samara’s voice was the last thing he ever heard, as he took leave of any voluntary control of his body. His body convulsed and his heart gripped in a terminal arrhythmia, failed for one final time. He tumbled head first out of his chair, landing with his neck snapped at an unnatural direction. As he dropped into the abyss that preceded death, in his last moments of active brain activity, it was Sophia Tennyson’s face that he saw and the Director’s name he cursed.

_____The Mayor terminated the call with an angry stab of his finger and dialled another number.

“I need immediate deployment of a team to the Bay of Plenty.”

“With whose authorisation,” came the voice at the end of the line.

“Mine!”

“Even as the Mayor you don’t have the authority to send out a team as much as I’d like to help.”

“I have fuel credits that will cover air travel to and from there Walker, and there’s also that matter of New Brunswick.”

There was a moment’s pause as the voice at the other end.

“You’ll send through the inventory.”

“I’m doing it as we speak,” as his fingers flew at lightning speed across the keyboard. “Deployment needs to be within the hour before inventory is destroyed. I don’t want my fuel credits wasted.”

“We will have it all in your hands by knock off sir.”

“You had better.”