Mother Moon

by Bob Goddard

  “It is only electric vehicles like this one, which can recharge their batteries for as long as the power stations keep running, that are able to carry these desperate refugees to the east, to the Alps and beyond, where they hope to find sanctuary from Comet Santos.

  “Excuse me, sir!” The reporter moved out of shot and the camera panned to find him talking to a man with a toddler on his shoulders. There was a brief exchange in Spanish then a long conversation in Portuguese. The man was accompanied by a woman and two older children. All looked exhausted.

  “This is Luis Almeida with his wife and family who left Lisbon in southern Portugal yesterday morning.” He turned back to the man and asked more questions in Portuguese.

  “They managed to fill their car near the Portuguese – Spanish border, but after that all the fuel stations have been empty. Their car finally ran dry…” he turned and asked another question, “ran out of fuel after Beziers at eight o’clock this morning. He and his family have been walking since then,” he checked his wrist-comm, “for the past three hours.”

  He asked another question then continued: “The children are aged two, seven and nine. Mr Almeida doesn’t know how far they will get or where they will sleep tonight. But he is hoping that they can somehow reach the Alps by tomorrow night and find shelter before the comet hits.”

  He turned back to the man: “Good luck to you and your family, Boa sorte para você e sua família.”

  The man was asking the reporter something and there was a terse exchange before he turned and led his family away, plodding painfully eastwards.

  “He was asking,” the reporter was facing the camera again, “if we could take them with us when we leave. But we have only a small tiltrotor.” He turned and gestured towards a bright red aircraft sitting in a field beyond the road barrier. It was guarded by a nervous looking man with a machine pistol slung across his chest.

  “It cannot carry any more than ourselves and the pilot. So sadly we must leave them to make their own way and hope they can reach a place of safety. Their plight is repeated a million times across Europe and North Africa today as Comet Santos creates the greatest exodus in human history.”

  “This is Mathéo Lefevre for Al Jazeera, on The Road of Tears, southern France.”

  Tamala reached forward to swipe the image from her screen then blew her nose into the damp tissue she was clutching. She’d seen enough. This was already the worst humanitarian disaster the world had ever known and Comet Santos wasn’t due for another 36 hours. It was mind-numbingly awful.

  She was wondering how she might comfort those attending her next yoga-meditation class in 45 minutes time, when there was a loud rapping on her door.

  “Come in!” she called, then quickly wiped her eyes and blew her nose again.

  The door opened and in stepped Andrei Lanimovskiy who scanned her tiny office to see who else might be there.

  “You are Miss Ngomi? The Personnel Officer?” he asked stiffly.

  “Yes, I’m the Head of Personnel. You are Andrei Lanimovskiy, aren’t you?” He was fair-haired and might be quite handsome, she thought, if he lost the puppy fat from around his face and neck.

  “I am. And I need you to do something for me,” he said, as if giving an order.

  Tamala’s eyes narrowed and her welcome smile disappeared.

  “I will help you, if I can,” she said warily.

  “I am denied food by this Governor. It is basic human right. You must tell her Geneva Convention, something like that.”

  “Ah, I see. You want me to fight your battle for you, do you?”

  “No. I am not coward. She is crazy woman. It is your job to protect personnel.” He folded his arms across his chest and stared at her belligerently.

  “Oh, it is, is it?” She felt her patience evaporating. “Well, there are a couple of things you ought to know, Mr Lanimovskiy, before you go around giving orders up here on the Moon.

  “Number one: the Geneva Convention covers the treatment of prisoners of war. We are not at war and you are not a prisoner here. You are free to leave any time you wish.” She raised her eyebrows in question but he didn’t answer.

  “Number two: Governor Sokolova is not a crazy woman. She is working harder than anyone at Armstrong to ensure we don’t all die from starvation in the coming weeks and months. She also believes in fair play and doesn’t see why we should all work to keep you fed if you are not prepared to do your fair share of the duties.”

  “I don’t work, like peasant. I am Russian aristocracy!” He rolled the ‘R’ of Russian elaborately.

  “Oh, I see!” She couldn’t help smiling at his arrogance. “Well, let’s just suppose for a moment that was true and that your father didn’t seize control of his company when his partner was conveniently jailed for tax evasion.” She had checked his biography yesterday. “Even if you were the President of Russia and the long lost heir of Tsar Nicholas, you would still not be entitled to preferential treatment here on the Moon.

  “For your information, the Head of Personnel at Armstrong Base does not have jurisdiction over the Mooncation tourists. They come under the direct control of the Governor. But in any case I would recommend that you are given a fair share of our very limited food supply only when you are contributing a fair share of work for the good of the colony. Your fellow tourists all volunteered and are making a real difference.

  “So the sooner you offer to help – and show that you mean it – the sooner the Governor will agree to share our food with you. And the sooner you will earn the respect that you seem to think you are entitled to.”

  “Huh!” he said, followed by a few Russian words she was pleased not to understand, as he stormed out of her office and slammed the door.

  Tamala leaned forward and switched her screen off ‘record’ mode. That little video would provide some light relief at their meeting in Nadia’s office later in the day. She was quite grateful to Andrei Lanimovskiy for one thing. His visit had taken her mind off the disaster that was unfolding down on planet Earth.

  * * * * *

  Moon, 2087

  Will Cooper tipped his head forward as the cold metal touched the back of his neck. Then the cutting began.

  This was the best part of his monthly haircut at Armstrong Base. The buzzing trimmer sent shivers down his spine, but Rachel Lim always took it too far. She was one of two women who, when they weren’t busy with their other duties, provided hairdressing for the colonists. Will booked his trims with Rachel because she cut it just the way he liked it.

  The trade-off was Rachel’s habit of trailing her brightly-coloured fingernails through the short hair on the back of his head and neck, making all his nerve-endings jangle. It raised feelings he would rather keep dormant.

  “Hey, cut it out, Rachel. Just trim the hair, okay?”

  “Oh, but you like it, Will. It is good for you to have your follicles stimulated.”

  He looked up to see her laughing at him in the mirror. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, but couldn’t help smiling back. She was a saucy little temptress and she knew it.

  “I don’t need any stimulation thank you, Rachel. Got way too much on my mind. So just cut the hair and let me get back to work, please.”

  “Oh, you have so much stress, Will,” she said, as she went back to running the trimmer down his neck and into his collar. “Would do you good to release the tension sometime. It’s not like you are married or anything.” She stuck out her lower lip like a petulant child.

  “Yes I am! I’m committed to Ginny, and you know it. So skip the come-on routine or I’ll get Meleesa to cut my hair in future.”

  “Oookay,” she said reluctantly, as she peeled the cape from around his shoulders and used a soft cloth to wipe away the hair fragments from his neck. Then she bent forward and kissed him just behind his right ear. “You’re finished, Mr Iron Will.”

  He gave her a crooked smile in the mirror and sprang out of the chair. When he turned around she was smiling a sad litt
le smile back at him. He wrapped his arms around her small shoulders and gave her a hug.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to, Rachel,” he whispered in her ear, “I just can’t, okay?”

  There was a knock at the door and he stepped back as a female colonist, one of the ladies from the farm, stepped in.

  “Thanks for the haircut, Rachel,” he said as he turned to go. “Same time next month, I guess.” Then he was gone and she was settling the woman into the chair, fixing the cape, picking up comb and scissors and making small talk as if nothing had happened.

  * * * * *

  Moon, 2087

  “Do you know why you are all here?” Nadia barked the question at the five scientists – two women and three men – plus their chief, Doctor Robinson, who were crammed into her tiny office. She stood behind her desk. Sitting beside her was Tamala Ngomi.

  One of the men turned and raised his eyebrows at the others. Nobody spoke.

  “You five have a narcotic substance in your bloodstreams. We’ve all seen you acting like drunks at a party. You’ve been making and taking drugs on a regular basis.”

  “I really had no idea!” said Doctor Robinson, looking shocked.

  Nadia looked down at Tamala, who smiled faintly.

  “We believe you Doctor Robinson,” Nadia continued. “Under normal circumstances these five would be sent home on the next shuttle in disgrace. You all know the rules. As that is not possible for the time being, I have decided you will all be redeployed to mining in the crater.”

  There was an audible: “Oh, no!” from one of the women.

  “Unless…” Nadia let them hang for long seconds, “unless you all agree to hand over control of production and supply of this narcotic to me.”

  They all looked surprised. “What are you going to do with it?” asked one of the men.

  “Doctor Rozek tells me this substance is relatively harmless in small doses and gives a mild euphoric effect. So, a little may help to raise spirits on certain occasions. It is only fair that everyone is offered that choice, provided they are not engaged in hazardous work in the hours following.”

  “Party time!” said the same man, with a grin.

  “Not quite,” said Nadia. “All existing stock and future production will be placed in the medical stores and administered under Doctor Rozek’s supervision. So, you won’t be getting ‘high’ in future and your blood will be tested weekly to make sure you don’t. If you are found with excessive levels in your bloodstream you will be barred from the labs and sent to the crater without further warning. Do you understand?”

  They all nodded.

  “Very well. We will go now to the labs and then to your rooms. You will hand over all of the drug…” she held up a sensor wand. “This will detect even the tiniest amount if you try to hide it.”

  She turned to the Englishman. “Doctor Robinson will personally supervise future production and will be responsible for delivery intact to the medical stores.”

  He gulped.

  * * * * *

  Moon, 2087

  Lian Song’s hand shook as she reached towards her screen. After a moment’s hesitation she touched the call button. An archive image of her mother filled the frame while her signal set off across space, bouncing from satellite to satellite on its way to Chengdu.

  Her heart thumped in her chest. Would her mother answer this time? The Chinese delegate to ISCOM had assured Nadia that she would. Now, finally, when Lian had almost given up hope.

  For the past day and a half Lian had stopped calling. She couldn’t face the heartbreaking ‘call rejected’ message any more. If her mother refused to talk to her this time…

  “There you are, Lian!” It was her mother. At last. She was speaking English, the ‘language of success’ that she had made Lian adopt as a child. “We were wondering what had happened to you. You are a bad girl for not calling for so long. Your father was very worried about you.”

  “Oh! Mother…” Lian’s voice failed as the tears fell.

  “They told us you were too busy to call, Lian, but still you should have let us know you were alright. We saw reports about the Moon colony but your name was never mentioned. We thought something terrible must have happened to you.”

  “I called!” Lian tried to shout but all that came out was a feeble croak.

  “I called and called and called. I called you and I called Father. I called every day. Every time my calls were rejected so I thought you didn’t want to speak to me…” She broke down sobbing, barely noticing the time lapse before her mother replied.

  “”We received no calls. Not since last Thursday. On Monday we contacted the ISCOM office and spoke to the Chinese delegate. He said you were too busy to call us, or had forgotten about us or something.”

  “He was lying Mother! They have been lying to me too… telling me you were rejecting my calls because you were ashamed of me.”

  “Ashamed of you! Why would we be ashamed of you? That’s ridiculous!”

  “It was because I told the Governor here that China had been mining Comet Santos. Our government was punishing me.” She wiped her eyes and nose, but the tears wouldn’t stop. “They were punishing me for being disloyal by intercepting my calls and rejecting them. When I queried it they told me you were refusing to speak to me. It was psychological torture, Mother. That’s what our government has been doing to me.”

  “Oh, I don’t think they would do that, Lian. You are letting your imagination run wild. There must have been a fault with the line, that’s all.”

  “No, it’s true. They are only letting me speak to you now because the Governor here has applied pressure via ISCOM. And because the World is coming to an end tomorrow night when this comet hits. It’s our government’s fault: mining the comet has caused it to change course. You do know that, don’t you, Mother?” She waited an age for the reply.

  “Now you really are talking nonsense, Lian. Are you sick or something? Your lips look swollen and you have a black eye. Have you had an accident? You sound delirious, child.”

  “Oh, Mother! I’m not sick and I’m not delirious. I was attacked by a Japanese man yesterday because everyone knows that China is the cause of this disaster. Half the people on planet Earth are going to die – maybe more – all because our country wanted to take the minerals and water from this stupid comet.” Her voice squeaked with exasperation.

  “That’s ridiculous, Lian. It’s obvious you are suffering from some kind of trauma. You need to see the doctor there at Armstrong Base and get some medication to calm you down and stop these wild delusions. I cannot speak to you while you are overwrought and emotional like this. Why don’t you call again tomorrow after you’ve seen the doctor?”

  But now Lian couldn’t speak. All the emotions she had been bottling up for the past week erupted in wracking sobs. Through her tears she saw her mother look away and speak to someone in Mandarin. Finally she turned back again, frowning and looking impatient.

  “Pull yourself together, Lian!” she snapped. “Go see the doctor right away. Then call me again same time tomorrow when you are feeling better. I have to go now.” Her hand reached forward then her image froze and a window opened.

  ‘CALL ENDED’

  Lian sat very still and tried to take in what had just happened. She had finally spoken to her mother. She had discovered her parents hadn’t been rejecting her calls after all. Their life in Chengdu seemed to be carrying on as normal. She ought to be delighted but for some reason she now felt more lonely and desolate than ever.

  “Maybe,” she whispered to herself, “I really am going mad.”

  * * * * *

  Moon, 2087

  Nadia Sokolova brought the buggy to a halt, raised her clumsy booted feet, swivelled in her seat and jumped down on to the dusty regolith. Her ink-black shadow stretched to the distant hills in the horizontal sunlight. She was at the landing zone where passengers and supplies arrived from the Shenlong Spaceplane. Or used to, she thought. There was no t
elling when the next supply ship from Earth might come.

  For the third time in as many days she was out on the lunar surface undertaking an inspection mission. She normally visited all parts of the colony during the course of each month, but spaced her outdoor excursions well apart to savour the experience, like the tastiest morsels in a meal. But the current demand for additional checks and her need to escape the tension inside the base had brought her here late on this Wednesday afternoon.

  She had driven around the cleared circular area marked with a fifty-metre cross that gave the pilot of the Lunar Transfer Vehicle (LTV) a visual target to aim for. The craft’s navigation system set it down automatically on the surface, but the pilot had the option of switching to manual control. In nine years of monthly landings there had only been three occasions when that had been necessary.

  Then she stopped in front of the rounded ridge of regolith that concealed the transfer waiting room or ‘departure lounge’ as the Lunies liked to call it. It was another plass tube, accessed via a huge airlock capable of taking up to 16 people at a time. Those leaving the Moon spent their last hour in here while the new arrivals were transferred to the base and the spider-like LTV was refuelled. When it was time to leave, the home-bound colonists re-fitted their helmets and crowded into the huge airlock chamber before making their last ever Moonwalk to board the LTV and begin the long flight back to Earth.

  The landing zone was deserted between monthly shuttle visits, except for a crew who serviced the waiting room and filled the fuel, air and water tanks housed in a bunker on the opposite side of the complex. There had been talk of using the LTV for geological survey trips to extend their range beyond the 40 km of the buggies, but it was considered too risky.

  What was needed, thought Nadia, was a second LTV so that a stranded crew could be rescued in the event of a problem. So far there hadn’t been enough commercial interest in Moon geology to fund one. It worried her that their supplies and transfers relied on a single vehicle, but ISCOM insisted its self-diagnostic systems and annual refit were sufficient to ensure operational safety. It was, she knew, a budgetary compromise, like so much that needed upgrading at Armstrong Base.