Station to Station

They call it the dark side of the moon, but that’s a misnomer. It’s the side perpetually facing away from the earth, and thus receives no glow of reflected earthlight, but it gets as much sunlight as starlight, and the shadows only grow deep when the earth eclipses the sun.

The terrain is more rugged than the earth-facing hemisphere, however, with more impact craters and fewer wide, smooth “seas.” So you’ll understand why we use “hoppers” to cross the distance between the stations, rather than the old rovers.

Why am I telling you this? That’s a reasonable question. Just be patient. I’ll get to that.

Not that you’re supposed to know about any of this. Far as anyone back home is concerned, we’re not even up here. I mean, it was something like 37 years ago that Apollo 17 called it a day, folded up shop and went home. I wasn’t even born then. That happened more than three years later, Summer 1976, after Station 1 was fully operational and the go-ahead was given for population growth.

I was supposed to be a symbol or something. A Bicentennial moon baby, born on the Fourth of July on our nation’s 200th birthday. It was all carefully planned, and when I was late, they brought me out by caesarean. Someone thought having a symbol of our colony’s success might be important someday, even though the mission was a secret; someday the nation would know about us, they figured, and my birth would have meaning, give them hope.

Whatever. I’m 33 now, and only a few other people ever cared that I was alive. And God only knows where they are now.

I make this trip between the stations every month. Basic maintenance. Cleaning CO2 scrubbers, trading out water filters in the recycling sumps, and fixing minor glitches in the solar panels. Department of Air, Water & Light, that’s my gig. The hopper makes the trips easy, floating low over the craters on its retro rockets, but I have to be careful not to break radio silence while en route or get my picture taken by some rogue satellite. We track all the space junk, and there’s a blind spot programmed into the official orbiters so they don’t see our landing platforms, but you never know when something could go wrong.

Like today, for instance.

Station 3 was dark when I arrived. No radio contact, of course. The five stations communicate with each other via phone cables buried in 1974, during the excavations for the initial construction. All the stations are buried under the lunar rock, covered with powder, with only small landing platforms for the hoppers to dock. Stations of the Cross, I call them, though we have only five rather than 14. But seen from above, if they were at all visible, they form a cross with one elongated leg reaching to Station 5 on the edge of the Aitken basin. Google it, if you’re curious, if they have Google whenever you are. I have time to wait.

The docking airlock opened for me, since it draws power from the hopper. It’s a security feature. Ensures only hopper personnel can access the stations. That way no pesky Chinese cosmonaut comes knocking down the door uninvited.

It wasn’t until I was inside the station that I realized something was wrong. Main power was out. The corridors were lit by battery powered lights, and the place was absolutely silent. Not even the air units hummed. The atmosphere was getting stale. I didn’t take a look around or head to the control center to ask questions; I opened a floor hatch, slung my tool kit over my shoulder, and took a ladder down two levels to check out the generator room.

Everything was intact. Someone had just turned it all off. I switched it back on, waited for the computer to reboot, and watched the indicators as it cycled through its diagnostics. Nothing was wrong anywhere in the system. The automatic controls reset and the air started cycling again. A breeze moved against my face and the lights came up.

I tried the intercom, but got no response. I tried the phone by the entry, but there was nothing but static, so I rode the lift back to the topside level to check in.

There was no one in control center. No one on monitor duty. I tried the phone again, with the same result. I opened the intercom to all levels and did an all-call. Nothing. No departments checked in. I was nervous now. I had seen all the sci-fi films you’ve probably seen. I never considered aliens, but it was entirely possible that someone had gone nuts, managed to fashion a weapon of some sort, and herded everyone into a room somewhere and killed them.

I didn’t have anything even close to resembling a weapon, just the low-power tools in my kit. I settled on a wrench, and held it in one hand as I called the other stations.

No one answered.

Let me make this clear: None of the stations answered. None of the department heads or grunts at any of the numbers I regularly call. My parents didn’t respond. My girlfriend. My wife. Nobody. I broke protocol and used the scrambled channel to call Ground Control, but no one responded. The channels were open; I got the ping back that indicated my calls were being received. It’s just that no one picked up and said hello.

I clutched that wrench and walked through the station, opening every door and locker and hatch as I went. It took me hours. I stopped to eat at one point. I stopped to throw up. I used the waste recycler. I stopped to cry like a lost child. I passed out. I slept. I woke up and ate again. I showered and changed into someone else’s abandoned clothes. I searched again. Got to keep searching and searching.

There were no bodies. No sign of a struggle or damage. It looked for all the world like everyone had vanished into thin air. Or they'd gotten a call to abandon the base, and they'd turned off the lights before they closed the doors.

I gathered some supplies, just in case the other stations were in worse condition than this one. Food and water, extra air tanks. I loaded them into the hopper. I went back to Station 2, where I’d come from last. There I found the same thing. Empty rooms. Power switched off. I restarted the power and searched the empty rooms and moved on to the next station of the cross, and the next, and the next.

I’ve been driving like a demon from station to station for days now. I’ve combed every inch of our little part of the moon. And I’m the only person I have to talk to.

Yes, it has occurred to me that I am not well. That none of this is really happening. That I’m actually lying in a hospital bed somewhere, making all this up in my head. That these are the things of dreams. That men don't really live on the moon. Should I believe that I’ve been stricken? I don’t know.

Maybe the others will return as mysteriously as they left. Maybe I’ll awaken from this dream.

I have considered equipping a hopper with extra fuel, somehow, and driving to the nearside. Trying to catch the eye of some watcher on the earth. Setting off an explosion at one of the Apollo landing sites. Trying to signal someone on the International Space Station. But I suspect that no one is there to see me or hear me. It’s too late for that. It’s too late.

But with the stations remaining operational, I can hold out for years, so long as I keep them maintained and the hydroponics farms running. I’m no farmer, though. We’ll see. Meanwhile, I will record these messages to whoever might find me here, or so I can remind myself why I’m still trying, one small step at a time.

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(c) 2009 by Tony Simmons
T-minus-15 days
Somehow inspired by this song, and intended as part of my 'Paradox Kid' comicbook project, retasked for '366 Days' instead.

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Today's Pick:

Is there anybody out there?

Yes, I know tonight was supposed to finally be the Dark Side of the Moon, but it has been a long day. So I went with a different Pink Floyd reference.

Hello? Is there anybody out there? Just nod if you can hear me. Is there anyone home?

If so, leave a comment. Send a tweet.

Peace.

Moonage Daydream

I just sat down and looked at the earthrise over a horizon too near. The gray powder and rocks rose ahead of me toward a distant mountain range, and behind the low gray hills was a black sky with the blue orb of earth climbing into view. Clouds obscured the surface, and I couldn’t tell what continent or ocean was turned toward me.

I would have liked to have seen my homeland once again, to imagine saying goodbye to my loved ones. But it was not to be.

I did not cry or curse or beat my helmet against the closest boulder. No reason to get upset, and no reason to fear. The suit would fill with my own carbon dioxide exhalations long before the cold got me or the vacuum. I’d gasp myself to sleep, never knowing if the lander received my distress signal.

I could feel it happening already, as I sat there and watched the earth. I didn’t think about the leaking tank that had left me without enough air to make it back to the lander. I didn’t think about the rover that had skidded into a crevasse, wedging itself sideways, or the struggle to free myself from the wreck and clear the cracked moonscape, only see my O2 indicator dropping.

Honestly, none of this crossed my mind at that moment, because I could see the insects coming out of the crevasse to investigate.

They moved slowly, wings held close to their bodies. The size of men, but walking on six legs, they clambered out of the shadows and over the skeleton of the rover, then noticed me sitting on gray dirt nearby. One of them pointed a foreclaw at me, and the others began to close in.

I wanted to panic, but the thin air in my suit wouldn’t allow it. An odd peace fell over me as the insects came close and surrounded me. Now I could see the way their faceted eyes caught the images of each other and me, and duplicated us a million times over. I could see that their heads were encased in some kind of rough crystal.

They reached for me, and I didn’t try to fight them off. I thought of it, but had no strength to do so.

It occurred to me that I was about to be eaten by moon ants.

They lifted me onto something, and I realized they had draped me over the back of one of their fellows. It carried me quickly toward the crevasse, skittered around the rover and into the darkness. I continued to have a sense of motion, but the darkness was total. I think I may have passed out.

When I came to again, I was in a cavern lighted by glowing stones in the walls. And my helmet was missing. I was exposed to some kind of atmosphere trapped in this cavern, cold and crisp. I was breathing oxygen inside this cave, deep below the surface of the moon. And I was surrounded by more of the oversized insects.

They no longer wore the crystal helmets, and I could see the details of their faces, some of them obviously softer and younger, some of them gnarled and ancient. They saw that I was awake, and began to close in around me. One of them carried my helmet. The creature had a sash of some kind draped around its neck, and a beard of white wiry hairs on its creased mandibles. It placed my helmet back on my suit, secured it, and reconnected the lines running to my O2 tank.

The creatures lifted me up again, and the “old man” creature carried me into the darkness of a nearby tunnel. My eyes never adjusted, as the darkness was complete. Then all at once, I saw stars overhead and the orb of the earth. My transporter clambered over the rover and set me on the dirt where I had been sitting when they found me.

It set me down gently and faced me, showing me that it had donned one of those crystal faceplates during our journey. It tapped its faceplate, then tapped my helmet playfully before it turned and hurried back into the crevasse.

Just then, the second rover came around a rise of boulders and discovered me. Carson found me. He replaced my faulty O2 tank and put me in his rover to get me back to the lander. I was barely conscious most of the way, but I saw my tank when he changed it. Over the gash where it had leaked, it now had the same crystal coating that the insects used.

That’s the story, sir. I’ve told it how many times now? There’s no way my O2 would have held out that long on its own. I swear it’s true, sir. Have you checked the crevasse?

What do you mean? No crevasse? Just a crater?

No, sir. That’s not possible. I saw it.

What about the oxygen tank? Nothing? Are you sure?

I don’t believe it. I can't. I know what I saw.

There were insects. Insects in the moon.

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(Originally posted at PCityLive as part of my '366 Days' project)
(c) 2009 by Tony Simmons
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Today's Pick:

This movie, and the story it was based on, was obviously one of the inspirations for the story above; the other was the title of this song. The tale was originally plotted as part of a comic series I call 'Paradox Kid' and was retasked for 366 Days. I read the novel by H.G. Wells in eighth grade, and saw this movie sometime around then on Channel 5's afternoon "Big Show." Or maybe on the latenight "Popcorn Theatre" show on Channel 3. Maybe both. Anyway, it scared me pretty good, thanks to Ray Harryhausen's magic.

Peace.
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(And maybe tomorrow we'll get around to the dark side of the moon...?)

Ticket to the Moon

Today's Pick:

Produced by Tom Hanks for HBO in 1998, this series follows the history of America's moon missions, playing like an extended version of The Right Stuff and Apollo 13, from Kennedy's vow to reach the moon before the end of the decade, right through to the end of the program. One character remarks, "We stopped going up just when we were getting really good at it." (This was my Father's Day gift this year. Highly recommended.)

Today's Music: Ticket to the Moon (ELO)
"Remember the good old 1980s? When things were so uncomplicated? I wish I could go back there again, and everything would be the same....I got a ticket to the moon..."

I'm thinking about the moon because the 40th anniversary of the Apollo 11 landing will be July 20. I can remember watching it on our TV in Century, and hearing my Papo talking about how it couldn't be real, because such a thing would make the moon turn to blood and be a sign of the endtimes. (Although, admitedly, I can't be sure that's exactly right. But I recall looking up at the moon and wondering what he meant by that.)

The splash down was on my fifth birthday, July 24, 1969.

"...Fly! Fly! Through a troubled sky, up to a new world, shining bright, whoa-whoa!..."

Here's a repost from part of my "366 Days" project -- chapter 27 from my novella, "The Traveler," in which Cain imagines a parallel reality where he and Gabriel (who has forgotten he's an angel) are astronauts on the moon:

From the Book of Cain:

There is a medieval legend that I wandered the earth until, one day, having walked every part of the land and having nowhere left to go, I went to the moon. There, in that barren place, I finally settled, having only the bundle of twigs I had carried with me.

I never went to the moon. The fact that I have to tell you this is a sign of the wonders you have seen. That you could believe such an incredible thing might have happened? You have witnessed strange things indeed.

But let’s say that I lived into the 1960s. And let’s suppose that I worked my way into the space program. Is it impossible that, among my many personae that I have adopted over the ages, I might have become an Air Force pilot and then an astronaut? And that, one day in the early 1970s, a few trips into the moon missions (I will not reveal which one), I set foot on the lunar dust and planted seeds in the powdery surface.

I only wish my gift had been returned to me before that time, just to see if the moon could have yielded to the blessing of the creator and given forth fruit in abundance.

And as I stood there and looked across the void at the little orb on which I had been born, you stood there beside me. An angel without wings, without even the memory of wings, but who had found a way to break the bonds of earth and soar again among the stars.

And I knew who you were, even if you did not. I turned to you. I asked you a question.

"Do you believe in God?"

You didn’t answer right away, and I thought perhaps you pretended not to hear. I didn’t repeat the question.

"I believe in that," you said, and pointed at the earth.

"What you can see?"

You kicked up some moondust, and you grunted. "I can’t see gravity," you said, "but I’d be stupid to say it didn’t exist. And yet, I also long to defy it."

I thought about that, and I asked, "Given the chance to defy God, would you do so?"

You didn‘t hesitate: "If I thought I was right."

And that’s when I decided you wouldn’t have an unfortunate accident there on the moon. That’s when I knew you had been a good choice for the mission Shekinah had in mind. You were the hand of God, but when you stood with God against Lucifer in the time before time, it was because it was the right thing to do, not because of blind devotion or a lack of free will.

And you would stand against God for the right reasons. You would stay his hand if need be.

I only wished you would recall our time on the moon when next we met. What things we might talk of then!

I held up my gloved hand and pretended to squeeze the distant planet between my fingers.

"It’s like a big, ripe tomato," I said.

"It’s like a dream," you said.

And we were both right.
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(c) 2009 by Tony Simmons
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Tomorrow: Dark Side of the Moon.

Patterns of Forever (366 Days redux)

The woman had a severe sunburn. I winced when she came up to the counter and said she wanted a tat. She didn’t ask how much or pause to let me ask about her burn. She pulled up her loose shirt tail and showed me the pattern on her stomach.

That’s when I noticed that the burn was only on her front half. The backs of her arms and legs were a normal shade made pale by the red on the front half of her body. Obviously, she’d fallen asleep lying on her back at the beach. But the pattern she showed me:

“It’s where he placed his hand,” she said. “I was drowsy, and when he came up out of the water and lay beside me on the blanket, I asked him to make sure I didn’t sleep, make sure to wake me so I would turn over and not burn. He said he would. He was out of breath from the boogie board and the waves, but he assured me he was wide awake.

“When I woke up, I was mad because he’d fallen asleep too. I shoved his hand aside. But he wasn’t asleep. Massive heart attack. Right there on the blanket beside me. Never made a sound. But he had reached for me there, at the end. He had reached for me and put his hand on my stomach. He tried to tell me. To wake me. He left it there while I slept and he went away.”

I looked at the pale pattern of a left hand print on the lower right side of her stomach. I told her what I’d charge to outline it in black. She waved her hand, dismissing the cost. She didn’t care what it cost.

“Make it red,” she said. “Fill in the pattern the same color as my skin is now. Make it last forever.”
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(c) 2009 by Tony Simmons
Originally published at PCityLive.com
Eric Darnell's favorite of my early 366 Days project.

Once upon three haiku

Once upon a time,
Happily ever after
was what we wanted.

In the meantime, though,
Happily ever after
became but a dream.

When we awoke, we
retold the fairy tale,
once upon a time.

Quick one: The Wall of Voodoo

I have many old albums. Some I have never listened to, and only purchased from yard sales because I was amused or intrigued by the cover art. I change the display of art on my wall whenever the mood strikes. This photo above was from the wall circa May/June. Below is the new one, which will probably last through July.

Peace.