Author: Damon Sweeney

Jupiter, a colossus pale orange disk against the black backdrop of space, shone mellowly, its stripes standing out in faint washes of red-brown colour. Scintillating meteor trails weaved the stars together.
Olman stared in awe, rigid in his bulky white spacesuit. “It’s majestic!”
Mondon wasn’t filled with a sense of awe, he’d become all too familiar with the harshness of the Ganymedean giant and felt sick revulsion. “Not to me,” he murmured.
Olman turned to him, his brow wrinkled. “Why?” Then he said in a less passionate voice, “Oh, the Jovians.”
“They’re mysterious,” Mondon said. “After years of communicating with their species, very little has been learned. They seem unfriendly and belligerent, I think they’re hiding something!”
“You sound paranoid, my friend,” Olman said flatly. “Why take the assignment as minister of intergalactic affairs if you’re so mistrusting?”
“Trust is earned. We don’t know what’s happening on the planet’s surface or how advanced their technology is, only what they tell us.”
Olman sighed and said, “I’ve heard all the conspiracies about the Jovians. They’re unfounded, it’s sheer hysteria.”
Mondon stopped walking. “Listen to me, Olman. They’ve constructed an intricate civilization of silicates, synthetic components and force fields. All without external assistance?”
“What’re you suggesting?”
“I don’t know.”
“We’ve detected no intelligent life originating beyond the milky way galaxy. These fear induced delusions might sabotage our chance of long-lasting–”
“Peace? I’ll always strive for peace and prosperity,” Mondon said, “the rebellion is spreading through the dominion like a plague, it’s my job to try and nullify that.” In spite of his unwavering efforts at the Foundation’s red board meeting, he knew at this rudimentary stage in the development of the interstellar program, that the same degeneration would exist in society, the same injudicious thinking, the cultural and social disparities would still prevail. However, his belief in a distant utopia was cardinal to restoring faith among the anarchic factions.
“Their behaviour is too capricious,” Olman said bitterly, “you have as much hope of changing their moral attitudes as I do living to see humanity develop light-speed travel and colonize faraway solar systems.”
“The seed must be planted.” He smiled, starting to walk again.
Olman stepped gingerly over jagged basalt rocks, glancing around him at the valleyed, barren landscape of the moon. Staring out at the ebon gulfs of the cosmos made him uneasy. The soft glint of the stars had an almost hypnotic effect on him. He saw a bluish-purple nebula. It was beautiful and frightening.
In the distance, Mondon saw the Moonbase – a vast, oval-shaped building. Eggshell white paneling. A spherical transmission tower illuminated with green light. Crimson sensor scanners swept the moon’s surface, aiming like targeting lasers. Trepidation twisted in his gut. This mission is ill-conceived he thought glumly. He looked at Olmon, his face ashen. A disturbing notion occurred to him. What if all that lay ahead was a bloody prelude to war?