A Handful of Jacks

The public lighting within the halls almost never stayed on past docktime. Usually the workers would come home in a rush to beat the lights-out, reaching their doors just in time to escape being lost in a labyrinth of darkness, possibly wandering for hours among the many corridors leading to each dwelling site. Official Rules of the lunar colony dictated that turning off the lights immediately kept crime and loitering down.

So when the florescent lamps continued to glow much longer than their usual time, the event was regarded as a holiday. Children stayed out late, playing among the metallic walls and fixtures that formed their world, while adults chatted comfortably on doorsteps. A few young men and women took advantage of the extra hours to engage in secretive forays of rapture, strolling hand in hand among a few of the empty halls and taking deep breaths at some of the larger oxygen vents, which were believed to inspire romance. No one questioned the unlooked-for boon; instead, they simply enjoyed it for its duration and meekly returned to their homes once the blinking lights-out signal came, content for one night of life.

When the same event occurred twice more, the holiday atmosphere dissipated faster than it had begun.

Rumors spread quicker than the vents could replace the air taken to say the words. People worried, gathering in huddles to discuss the latest news from the Central Control of Energy and Mining. Light was all well and good for its purposes, of course, but was it really wise for the Control to keep it on so long? Who knew what evils might arise from such folly? Of more importance, why had the thing begun to happen at all?

The fear and worry continued to spread as the days grew successively longer. Even children began to ponder the reason for their extended playtime amidst their parents' anxiety.

"They say it's for testing," Rickor explained, hanging upside down from a metal bar jutting out of a long unused vent. "That maybe there's a new vein in the mines or a better fuel, and they need light to test it."

"Then why'd they need our lights?" Angie asked, looking up from her game on the floor. "They've done things at the plant before and never needed ours on."

"I dunno." With expert precision, Rickor swung forward and flipped down, landing softly on his feet. "But Dad says we shouldn't be so dopey about it. They're not gonna kill us or nothing. They probably don't even realize the lights are on here." Growing bored, he knelt down to examine Angie's game. "Where'd ya get that?"

The young curly-haired girl licked her lips indecisively. "Mom says I'm not to tell people much...."

"Oh come on," Rickor argued, "I'm not gonna report you."

Desire to flaunt her treasures won over parental caution. With lowered voice she proudly presented the pieces. "It's called ‘jacks,' an' Aunt May gave it to me last week; she said to give me something to do. She bought the stuff from Ol' Bern."

"Really?" Admiration filled Rickor's query. Everyone knew about the traveling peddler Ol' Bern. Old enough to remember Earth before colonial expansion, he had enough connections to both vend government supplies and smuggle in contraband items. He even rode an illegal gas-powered vehicle to sell his wares. If the Supply Station didn't have something, most likely Ol' Bern did. "I wish I could get something from him," Rickor continued wistfully. "Dad won't let him on our hall, though. Says he's bad for the colony and we could all get in trouble for it."

"Well, my dad said he didn't come here to be treated like a slave, an' if Ol' Bern wants to risk his neck, let him." Angie fingered her soft ball confidently.

Reaching down, Rickor picked up a single spiked jack. "How d'ya play?"

"Aunt May showed me," Angie explained, arranging the jacks. "First you start with one, an' try to pick it up before the ball comes back." She demonstrated, nimbly scooping the oblong toy of points into her hand and grabbing the ball midair. "Then you go up each time, two, three, four . . ," her hand swept successively faster through the row of jacks, neatly taking them in groups. The process faltered at five, and by six Angie failed to beat her ball. "It's kinda hard farther up, but it's real fun."

"Looks like it," Rickor noted excitedly. "Can I try?"

The ball promptly fell and bounced before Rickor could begin to pick one jack up. "How d'ya manage it?" he demanded in frustration.

"It's real hard at first," Angie sympathized. "Even Aunt May had a hard time showing me to start with. She said it's cause the gravity's so low here an' the ball bounces funny. Back when she learned –"

"You mean it's a moldie game!" Rickor threw the ball down in disgust, causing it to bounce erratically against the many metallic surfaces: floor, ceiling, walls.

Angie leapt up with a cry of alarm, grabbing at the elusive airborne orb. Finally she managed to catch it in a great lunge. "How dare you?" she lashed out, eyes large and red with acrimony.

"It's just a stupid ol' moldie ball," Rickor spat out the insult for all things Earth-bound, dismissively shrugging. "Dad says if we didn't use so many imports, we could be self-sufficient, and then we wouldn't have so many problems. He says Ol' Bern's a bandit who doesn't care about anybody, and someday he'll get what's coming to him."

"He is not. Besides, you've never even seen him." Angie held her ball close, cradling it in her palm. "And if you'd lost my ball, you'd owe me big time. It cost a lot."

"Your family's like that, aren't you?" Rickor grinned maliciously. "You're still earthy, still want a house with a yard and a car."

"You don't even know what you're talking about," Angie flung back angrily. "I bet you've never seen a car or a house. I'll bet... ," she searched for an appropriate taunt to toss out, "... I bet you've never even seen the Earth!"

"Have too!" Rickor quickly defended himself. "I did just last week, when Dad took me part way to work."

"Where'd you look, then?"

"Out a vent hole near the mines. They hadn't covered it back up yet."

"Bet you didn't. Bet you're making it all up."

"Oh yeah?" Rickor demanded. "So you've seen it so many times, have you? Bet you've never seen the Earth at all, have you?"

Suddenly a loud crash echoed loudly through the halls, silencing any further bickering. Both children instinctively held their breath for the required five minutes, having been drilled in the event of a vent emergency to conserve whatever breath they possessed at the moment. Lights flickered but remained on while vents kicked up a notch, blowing cool gusts against their skin.

Quickly gulping a breath, Rickor excitedly turned in the direction of the noise that still echoed in the metallic halls. "Let's go!" He ran off with Angie chasing after.

They knew they'd arrived at the place by the large crowd gathered around it. People gawked and murmured, jostling each other for a better view. Both children tried to leap up to peer over the adults. "They're too bunched up," Rickor admitted, looking for a vantage point.

"There!" Angie pointed to a large vent cover jutting out from the wall, which they both scrambled to mount. The perch allowed them to see over the throng to the scene below.

"We'll probably be run off," Rickor grumbled.

"Oh hush." Angie craned her neck to see. "Rickor, look!"

A Control vehicle lay sprawled across the twisted chrome of what used to be a small motored bike. Already the bike's tank had begun to leak its noxious gas residue. People near the front began to grow faint and backed up for a breath of fresher air. The fumes seemed to be contained by the Control officers, but many still eyed the site fearfully, aware of the danger a loose compound like petroleum could impose on the synthetic air supply.

"Angie, what's happening to that man?" Rickor asked hesitantly, gesturing to the wreck where officers were trying to pull a man from the twisted metal. He lay utterly still, with frozen features that had begun to take on a bluish tint.

"Oh Rickor, its Ol' Bern!" Angie gasped. "He's going through displacement."

"What?" Hypnotically, Rickor's eyes remained glued to the scene, his mouth barely forming the word.

"Displacement." Angie whispered, watching with equal fascination.

The crowd below stared with them as the officers lifted the body and placed it in an airtight bag.

"My mom helped on a crew like that once," she began to explain, attempting to clarify with words what her mind would not accept. "You know how the air they make's so jumpy, how when you cook too much or something the air gets thin? When there's other gases around, they're stronger than the oxygen vents, an' if you're too near the gases or there's too much, you breathe them in instead. They displace the air in your lungs."

"That why the officials're wearing vac suits, like Dad does at work?"

"Guess so."

Both sat in silence, watching the shroud covered body enter the unscathed Control vehicle.

"I think I've heard of it," Rickor murmured absently. "Dad said that it happened at work once, that a tank cracked an' something leaked, an' a guy fell."

"Wonder what it's like..."

The question trailed off as the officials returned to contain the spill and the leaking vehicle. None in the crowd had spoke a word since the officials began their work, hoping by their silence to preserve the precious air supply near them. After loading the bike in another airtight bag and clearing the area of any remaining gas with a vacuum, they got in their vehicle and drove away, leaving a misty trail of hydro-fuel behind.

The crowd dispersed slowly after that, with people leaving in small groups and quietly discussing what had just occurred. The general consensus seemed to be that patrol vehicles had been out for days searching for Ol' Bern, and that was why the lights had remained on so long. They were trying to flush him out with the extended sale time, making him careless with the possibility of so much added revenue.

He should have known better, ran the common refrain. He should have known better.

Soon Rickor and Angie were the only ones left. Each continued staring ahead, as if straining to see the objects that were no longer present. A faint, sickly sweet smell lingered, part hydrogen and part gaseous fumes. Otherwise the officials had cleared the area of any sign of the accident. Life had fully, inescapably, returned to normal.

"Rickor?"

"Yeah?"

"Let's go home."

The two climbed down and started their short trek, each wrapped in his or her own thoughts.

"Angie?"

"Yeah?"

"D'ya still have the ball?"

Angie blinked, surprised out of her musings, and followed Rickor's line of sight down to her hand clenched at her side. She brought it up and slowly relaxed her grip, fingers sliding back one by one. Resting snugly still, safe and sound, lay the little blue ball.

They stared at it in wonder as a thing of grave importance.

"I wonder where he got it?" Rickor spoke aloud, sharing his inner thoughts.

"Maybe a market at Supply, maybe he smuggled it himself." Angie breathed deeply, assuring herself she was alive.

With a soft gesture of inquiry, and an equally gentle nod in answer, Rickor gingerly took the small round ball and held it between his fingers. "Do ya think, I mean, is it true that the earth looks like this?" he wondered. "All round and great?"

"I don't know – maybe." Angie admitted. "I've never seen it."

Each grinned sheepishly at the other. "Guess neither of us have," Rickor acknowledged, holding out his other hand: in it lay a single jack.

"No, just Aunt May's stories," Angie nodded, taking the trinket thoughtfully. "And a handful of jacks."

Rickor held up the ball, the small orb glowing brilliantly against the grey of the expanse behind it. Both looked on, trying to imagine a vibrant world in an open sky they had never seen, attempting to fathom the world they lived in with its walls and its rules. Neither questioned their lives, really, but both felt a longing, just for once, to gaze upon a place outside of their scope of existence.

The lights blinked, signaling that darkness would fall soon. In the split second that their sight was obscured, each felt a swell of expectation.

With the moment over, they escaped the spell.

"Guess we'd better hurry," Angie noted. "Could I have my ball back?"

Rickor hurriedly handed it over. "Sure, I'm probably already in trouble with Dad for being out too long."

"Yeah, me too."

They began to run, retracing their earlier path in a race against the approaching night. Without warning, Rickor stumbled over some small bits on the floor. Flailing his arms and trying to right himself, he suddenly noticed what had caused his spill. "Angie, your jacks!" Bending down, he hurriedly started picking up the pieces.

"Come on, Rickor, it'll be dark soon." Angie gestured for him to follow. He ignored her. "Rickor, just leave 'em!"

"He died for them, Angie." Rickor muttered, never taking his hands from their task.

She looking longingly toward the pile. For a moment she seemed to consider leaving; then she quickly rushed over. "Hand them to me, Rickor."

In a rush of silver they spilled from his grasp into hers, a handful of jacks joining past to present. Hope flowed freely in the sparkle of the toys, twinkling brightly against the gathering gloom, before they and the light left for another day.