The shadows are dark. What I thought was a nearby crater appears to be an undulating canyon running through the plain. It’s probably tied to ancient volcanic activity. At those points where the canyon curls away from the Sun, the far slope is as pitch black as the sky above.
A single star sits roughly 30 degrees above the horizon. At first, I don’t think anything of it, but then I realize the glare coming off the surface is so bright I shouldn’t be able to make out any stars beyond our own Sun.
“Mission Control,” I say, turning on my mic. I jump to my feet and drift to the floor. “We have contact.”
“Say again, Cognitum.”
“I can see them,” I say, getting excited. “They must have seen Juliet come down. They’re right there! Maybe a mile or two off in the distance, hovering over the rise. I make them out as northwest of Juliet, in the direction of Kepler Crater.”
“Copy that, Cognitum. Please hold.”
They may say hold, but I can’t.
As a precaution, I was already suited up during the landing, with only my helmet and gloves stowed. In my excitement, I drop my orange juice. As I reach for my helmet, I step on the juice, squashing the plastic packaging. OJ sprays out across the floor of the cabin. The soles of my over-boots are almost two inches thick, so I’m clumsy in them. They’re designed to withstand surface temperatures reaching 250 degrees Fahrenheit. It might not be enough to bake a cake, but the rocks out there are several times hotter than anything found in Death Valley. In the shadows, though, the regolith will be cooler than the ice of Antarctica.
I start working through the EVA checklist, making sure the cooling fluid in my suit is topped-up. The pump is working. Oxygen and electrical power both look good. I don my helmet, securing it in place. My gloves lock halfway up my forearms, being joined by thick aluminum rings and rubber seals. Damn, I feel more like a superhero than an astronaut.
I purge the cabin, removing the air.
“Cognitum to Mission Control. I’m preparing for EVA.”
“Negative, Cognitum. Mission Control advises caution. Please hold.”
“We’ve got to make contact,” I say. “Mission elapsed time is one-oh-four and forty-two minutes—and the hatch is open.”
When it came to the original Apollo missions, there was only ever one consideration—weight, or more precisely, mass. Absolutely everything was done to keep every aspect of the flight as light as possible. As a consequence, there are no seats in the Lunar Module. Seats are a luxury no one needs this far from Earth. Sit on the engine if you’re tired. There’s also no airlock, just a hatch, and the hatch is tiny by the standards of my day. I’m used to vast circular hatchways equipment can be passed through. The hatch on the Lunar Module is the equivalent of a dog flap in a door. With the hatch opening inward, I turn around, crouching as I shuffle backward on my knees, trying not to bump into the edge. Glamorous, it ain’t.
There’s a porch immediately outside the hatch, but there’s not enough room to stand, not without striking my helmet on the underside of the cabin. There are handles, though. I grab one as I ease myself back, feeling with my boots for the first rung of the ladder. It’s there, but I have to stretch to reach it.
“I’m on the ladder.”
“Copy that,” is the reply, confirming my suit radio is being relayed through the Lunar Module back to Earth.
Juliet is beautiful if unconventional. Like a diamond, no two surfaces have been cut on the same angle. She looks flimsy, but she’s not. Aluminum panels catch the sunlight reflecting off the surface of the Moon, giving the shadows a hint of light. Her thin, spider-like legs are long and lanky. They’ve been wrapped in gold foil. Her body sits high and proud above the lunar surface.
I work my way down the ladder toward the massive landing pads on her feet. It’s a drop of about a meter from the bottom rung of the ladder to the foil-covered pad, but in reduced gravity, it’s a breeze. I push off with my boots, allowing my gloves to slide down the ladder as I drift gently onto the landing pad.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, looking beneath Juliet. “The engine bell has struck an outcrop of regolith on the slope. One whole side has crumpled.”
Thankfully, Juliet has an ascent stage with its own engine that will separate from the module. When I take off, I’ll leave the landing legs, empty fuel tanks, and a damaged engine sitting here on the plain.
I’m vaguely aware I’m supposed to say something iconic about stepping off onto the lunar surface, but I’m already roughly twenty feet from Juliet. I’ve stumbled through 360 degrees, taking in the vista around me, before that realization hits. The only thing that strikes my mind is to provide more detail about the state of the landing craft.
“One of the legs is bent. It’s been pushed hard up against a nearby boulder. The landing pad has been crushed. Other than that, apart from being on an angle, Juliet looks okay.”
“Copy that,” is the reply, but the omission of any real response is telling. With no visual metrics, all they have to go on is my description.
I turn toward the distant hills. They rise like waves on the open ocean, building to a swell. Smooth curves dominate the Mare Cognitum—the Sea that has Become Known. The basalt here cooled more than four billion years ago, becoming locked in place. Above the plain, a solitary light hangs low over the horizon.
“It’s sparkling. I think it’s turning,” I say, beginning a gentle lope across the undulating ground. My boots skip across the surface, kicking up dust. To these alien creatures watching from afar, it must look like I’m about to topple over face-first. I have to lean forward to counter the weight of my PLSS. Although such a motion feels awkward, it’s stable, allowing me to work with a new center of gravity.
I’m breathing hard. Light plays on my glass visor. I could lower the sun shield to reduce the glare, but I don’t want to break my rhythm. The distant hills never seem to creep any closer. It’s an illusion, but I could swear they’re getting further away. After fifteen minutes, I come to a stop on the lip of a crater and look back.
Juliet looks awfully lonely on the desolate plain. She’s dwarfed by the vast rocky expanse. The gold foil on her legs catches the sunlight, making her appear like a jewel abandoned in the desert. I can see my meandering boot prints swaying as they proceed up the slope, marking my path. I could have sworn I’d gone straight, but I’ve weaved from side to side as I’ve bounced across the plain.
Mission Control is quiet. I guess they can hear my breathing and are letting me get on with things. Now that I’ve stopped, my breathing slows. I’m about to say something when the radio comes to life.
“Cognitum. Romeo has confirmed visual on your landing site. You are forty-seven miles long. Over.”
“Copy that,” I reply. “I am currently about a mile northwest of Juliet, working my way up a long slope.”
“Cognitum. Romeo has spotted smaller alien structures roughly seven miles north to northwest of you. Be advised, we estimate this is well beyond the return range of your EVA. Oxygen will be fine, but we expect your electrical supply to run low.”
Great. So much for my estimate of a mile or two. Without electricity, the CO2 scrubbers will fail. Coolant will no longer circulate through my undergarments. Oh, well, at least I’ll lose consciousness before I start to cook.
“Understood,” I say. “Continuing on.”
“Cognitum. Communication is only possible via line-of-sight. Once you go over the rise, we’re going to lose you.”
I don’t know what to say to that. My options are to continue on and die alone, or pull back and live. I can’t give up. I feel driven to know what lies out there, even if it costs me my life. I couldn’t stand myself if I quit. It’s stupid, but if I was to return to Earth, it would be with nothing but regret. Ever since Homo sapiens first ventured across the savannah, we’ve been driven by an urge to see what lies over the horizon. We’ve always been compelled to know more.
Reluctantly, I reply, “Understood.”
I lope acro
ss the plain, scuffing my boots in the dust. Even with a bulky spacesuit, it’s easy to establish a rhythm. I’m skipping rather than running. Every couple of minutes, I alternate from one side to the other.
Buzz Aldrin described the Sea of Tranquility as magnificent desolation. He wasn’t wrong. Staring out at a boulder field bathed in a blinding white light might not be everyone’s idea of paradise, but it has its own beauty. I think it’s the pristine environment—the idea that the land is untouched not only by humans but by nature itself. There’s a sense of depth that’s hard to describe. The rocks and boulders around me have rested here for billions of years, undisturbed by the life that flourishes next door on Earth. Rather than making me feel small, I feel important. Life from Earth has defied this magnificent desolation. As fleeting as it may be, each boot print is a mark of triumph.
“Juliet. Romeo,” comes over the radio. “Juliet, this is Romeo. Are you receiving me, over?”
I come to a halt beside a boulder the size of an SUV.
“Romeo, this is Juliet. I’m down in the Mare of Cognitum.”
I turn, resting my gloved hand on the boulder, and look up at the black sky. I’m hoping to see a glint of light reflecting off the insulation on the Command Module, but there’s only one star in the sky. As bright as the Sun is on Earth, it is nothing like the local star as seen from space. Out here, the Sun is akin to a spotlight held just a few inches from my visor. Damn it. I can’t see him.
“Jess. You don’t have to do this.”
“It’s okay.”
“Come back to me. We’ll return to Earth, review the mission, and take another shot at this.”
“We got lucky,” I say. “I didn’t think we’d get this far. I can’t turn back when I’m so damn close.”
“But you’ll die down there.”
“I know.”
I turn away from the boulder and continue on up the slope. There’s no reply from Romeo. Adrian must have passed over the horizon and out of radio contact.
The hill continues rising several hundred feet above the plain. I keep my sights on the artificial star. I don’t think it’s moved, but it appears higher, probably because I’m getting closer, reducing the angle. I hope.
I reach the top of the rise. Turning back, I can just see Juliet. She’s a bump on the horizon, barely visible at this distance. If I didn’t know where to look, she would be just another boulder strewn on the plain.
“Mission Control. Cognitum.”
“Go ahead, Cognitum.”
“Be advised I am moving out of radio contact.”
There’s silence for a moment before the reply.
“God speed, Cognitum.”
I am too fucking stubborn. Within the confines of my spacesuit, I feel invincible, but I’m not. Beyond my glass visor is a vacuum that could boil my blood within seconds. Beneath my feet, the surface of the Moon is as hot as a furnace.
I cross the rise and descend into a valley. For the first time, I’m alone. I’m in a gully. I can’t see Earth from down here. It’s as though I’m the only being in all of creation.
“Gal?” I whisper. “Pretty Boy?”
Now would be a great time to drop into the African grasslands. Oh, to be chased by a lion. I’d love to see that goddamn mammoth again. Brushing snow from my visor was insane, but this is no virtual world. I’m not dropping into a machine workshop on Erebus again.
“I miss you guys,” I say, heading up a steep incline. It hurts to have been ripped out of one time and thrown into another. There was no closure. I never got to thank them or say goodbye. I want to know what happened to them, but that knowledge is lost. I survived. That gives me hope. They must have survived if they were able to preserve my remains.
“This is for you, my friends.”
Rocks litter the ground. Tiny indents mark where ejecta fell to the lunar surface in some other eon. Over billions of years, asteroids have devastated the landscape.
Loping downhill on the other side of the ridge is fun. If anything, I have to hold myself back. The temptation is to go too fast and too far with each successive bound. Dust is thrown up by my boots. The lack of shadows makes it difficult to judge the downward angle. A couple of times, I hang suspended in the vacuum a little longer than is comfortable as the slope falls away beneath me. I crouch, using my knees to absorb the impact. At a guess, each bound is covering fifteen to twenty feet.
I come to a halt and turn a little too quickly, wanting to get my bearings. Suddenly, I’m hit with a sense of déjà vu. I’m not sure if it’s the dark sky or the distant cliffs, but I feel as though I’ve been transported back to the Proc.
This could be Erebus.
I shuffle with my feet, looking at the rocks and boulders around me. I’m desperate. I’m trying to make out the shape of an alien camouflaging itself, blending in with the rocky ground.
My heart races.
I’m manic. I’m expecting a flurry of tentacles to propel a creature on in the distance. I turn, wanting to see all around me. I need to see that damn thing before it settles against the rocks.
I look up and there’s Earth, breaking the spell. It takes considerable resolve to slow my breathing. Damn, I hope Victory is right. If I run into one of those creatures out here, I’m dead.
The slope lessens, forming a saddleback between hills. I try to maintain my momentum, but going up the far hill is hard. Rather than climbing, I’m jumping up the loose dust, constantly working to keep my balance. A couple of times, I stumble and have to push off a boulder or against the slope to right myself.
Once pristine, my suit is starting to look like the pulverized regolith around it. From my knees down, my trousers look like they’re covered in charcoal. The white fabric on my arms is gray. Rather than being dirty, static is causing fine dust to cling to my suit.
As I reach the next rise, I notice the light is almost directly above me.
Coming over the ridge, I see a series of interlocking domes. The alien structures visible from Earth are the size of cities. This base is small, barely the size of a shopping mall. Golden bubbles cling to the side of the Moon. They’re the inverse of craters. Their smooth, gilded shapes are stunning, reflecting the rocky landscape around them.
My heart thumps within my chest.
I slow my descent, unsure what to expect. Loose rocks and dust pile up over my boots as I sink in the debris that’s accumulated over billions of years. It’s like wading through snow.
The light descends. At one point, it’s level with me, hovering over the central dome. Well, they know I’m here.
Once I’m on the plateau, I work my way around the rim of a crater. It’s too deep for me to go straight toward the domes, so I stay high on the rocky edge, hitting a gentle lope as I circumnavigate the ridge.
Sweat drips from my forehead, stinging my eyes, but it’s not a sign of exhaustion. My cooling unit is failing. In my day, spacesuits had all kinds of metrics showing up on a wrist-mounted display screen. All I’ve got is an old fashioned watch with hands instead of numbers. I look at it, but my vision blurs. I’ve got to focus to make out the numbers. Damn, I’ve been out here for more than nine hours. As a day and night on the Moon lasts a month, there’s been no visual clues about the passage of time. The shadows are as long now as when I began my EVA. I’m well beyond range.
My gloved hand reaches out and touches the golden surface of the closest dome. It’s smooth and hard—impenetrable. I slap at it, looking for some kind of response. Nothing.
My head aches. I’m developing a splitting migraine. It feels as though someone has hit me on the forehead with an ax. My CO2 scrubbers are starting to fail.
I press on, loping around the side of the dome, looking for any distinguishing features.
“Come on. Someone’s got to be home.”
The domes are clustered together like soap bubbles. Between the curve of the domes, there are ramps. Like the domes themselves, they’re golden, but they don’t lead anywhere. They simply fill in the
gap between each dome. The ramps narrow as one dome intrudes on the other.
I’m out of time. This is all I’ve got.
I start up a ramp, dragging lunar dust with me on my boots. I’m less than halfway up when I fall to my knees. My throat tightens. I’m struggling to breathe. Tiny pinpricks of light appear before my eyes, but they’re not real. If I squeeze my eyelids shut, they’re still there.
My life-support is failing.
I’m dying.
Goddamn it!
Frustrated, I slap my gloved hand on the ramp. Something astonishing happens. The dust that billows up lingers rather than falling away. I swat at the fine cloud. It sways in the wake of my hand, slowly drifting to the ramp.
“There’s an atmosphere,” I say in defiance of reason. I can see the edge of the ramp not more than ten feet behind me. It disappears beneath the regolith. I’m still on the outside of the domes, but the lunar dust from my gloves isn’t falling straight back to the surface. I clap my gloved hands together. A plume of dust forms, lingering before drifting away. It floats as though caught on a breeze.
“How is this possible?”
I can’t think. This doesn’t make sense. My forehead throbs. The carbon dioxide scrubber in my PLSS has failed. It doesn’t matter how much oxygen I have left in my tanks, I’m poisoning myself with each breath. Being out of options, I reach up and grab my helmet with both gloved hands and work with the latches. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, but I twist the helmet around, leaving me facing the sweat-soaked lining, and then lift. Cold air rushes in beneath the collar, but I can breathe. I drop my helmet and it rolls down the slope, coming to rest on the rocks and dust at the bottom of the ramp.
“What the hell?” I say, looking out at the rocky lunar surface just a few feet away.
Déjà Vu (First Contact) Page 27