My first short story, never published, partially abandoned, on my backlog for a substantial re-write as a quite different short story or novella.
The Wreck of the U.S.S. Winnipeg ©
By Zachary Taylor Branch
December 2, 1969: Lindbergh Station, in Geostationary Orbit over the American Continent
“Alright, Miner, enough of the nattering, tell us what you saw, everything, from the beginning,” demanded the interlocutor, a shadow in the circle of darkness around the seated Miner, who was growing more anxious in the unaccustomed gravity and unusually bright light from the single sconce above him.
“My apologies, sirs, I was told that I would receive immunity from prosecution in exchange for my testimony,” said the Miner. “I merely wanted to confirm terms before providing full testimony, my story is all that I’ve got.”
“We make no guarantees,” responded the shadowed questioner. “You have been found in possession of illegally acquired First Fleet property, we don’t even need a tribunal to lock you up on the Farside of Selene for a hundred years. And from the look of your correspondence log, no one would even miss you. You’re correct that the only leverage you have is what little knowledge may be locked up in that bony head of yours, but it is up to us to determine its value. So tell us everything that you saw, from September 10 onward, with details this time, and if it is of any value or mitigates your guilt, we might consider a more lenient response; maybe just 20 years in a Bukharan salt mine. Now talk.”
The Miner sat alone in the center of a large, dark room. His interlocutor was seated at a dimly lighted table adjacent one of the featureless walls, flanked by six other gentlemen that the Miner could see only as dim silhouette. He was outnumbered and without any obvious allies, but he was starting to get a sense of what this odd panel was looking for and the limits of their knowledge. He was in trouble no doubt, caught in possession of sensitive Navy property, but possibly not criminally so. He started his story again.
“Well, sirs, it was like this. I’m a small worlds specialist, been scouting out the forward Lunar Lagrange Point, L4, almost my entire adult life. By rights, there shouldn’t be any rocks at Lunar L4 at all, what with all the perturbations from the inner planets. But since Herr Doctor Waltemath found the first large rocks in the Earth-Selene Trojan orbits, seems to have been a steady supply gathering there over the last 70 years. Still not considered ripe pickings, most of me comrades in arms drive their Scouts and Processors out into the Main Belt, or harvest the Earth-crossers to save on transport time. But a lot of them work in Co-ops or drive for one the big cartels, so they live in one of the big colonies on Selene. Me, I don’t particularly like the company of people, so I have my own place way out on the Taurus-Littrow. Peaceful out there, very quiet, can do a bit of prospecting while my scout is nosing around L4. But it’s a hard way to make a living. My fees and claim shares barely cover the cost of keeping old Lucretia, that’s what I call my Scout, in one piece, and keeping me little base in order, what with the cost of water and supplies these days. So let’s see, going back to early September, I was only about me business, driving Lucretia around some of the micro-worlds at L4, trying to make that big score that would pay off the sharks holding my notes, so I’s can prospect in peace for a while.”
The Miner paused for a moment to see if he was getting any sympathy from the shadowed panel, but there was only a stony silence, and a distinct chill in the air. They always kept these geo-synch stations colder than he liked, but the weight was good, almost Earth-normal. Gravity was cheap, heat less so, what with so many of the Whitehall generators shutting down or blowing up on Selene. The Miner cleared his throat, wishing desperately that he had a little liquid courage to ease his task, and was about to plunge back into his story when one of the shadowed panelists spoke up. A young man by the sound of his voice, and speaking from the end of the conference table, so a junior member of the delegation.
“Mr. Dowsing, explain something for me please. If you are an asteroid miner, why do you work remotely from the Moon? Even if Lucretia is a very fine old Scout, surely you could do a better job of finding high quality ores and minerals if you were out at L4 yourself, it just stands to reason.”
The Miner smiled to himself as a murmur spread across the panel. “The weak link,” he thought. “Likely a young Savant from Earth, a specialist in something or other. Brilliant in some small thing the Panel thinks will be useful, but painfully ignorant of the facts of the world. And judging from their tone of voice, the chief interrogator and the other panelists are none too happy with this novice talking out of turn. A slight advantage if I can play this right.”
First five pages, short story submitted for publication