Space Case (3 page)

Lunar day 188

Morning

I didn't hear about Dr. Holtz's
death until well after it happened.

I hadn't been able to go back to sleep after overhearing his conversation in the bathroom. This was partly because I was excited to learn what he'd discovered—but mostly because our lunar sleeping quarters are horrible. Sleeping in low gravity is difficult to begin with; it's been a major problem with human spaceflight since day one. However, the idiots who designed MBA worked overtime to make the problem even worse. Due to space and weight considerations, no beds were brought to the moon. Instead we all sleep on air mattresses that were
specifically designed for minimum weight rather than comfort. They're stiff, they smell like burning tires, and they often leak—so it's common to wake up in the middle of the night to find yourself on the hard floor, surrounded by deflated rubber.

In addition, it's always daytime at Moon Base Alpha. All our power comes from the sun, generated by two massive arrays of solar panels, so MBA is situated near the moon's north pole, where the sun never sets. (Anywhere else on the moon we would have had 354 hours of night at a time, followed by 354 hours of day.) To stay sane, all Moonies are directed to follow a twenty-four hour earth day, synced to the USA's central time zone via Mission Control in Houston, Texas. But I've had a hard time adapting to life without regular phases of night and day.

Finally, we don't have bedrooms. Space is too valuable at MBA for those. Instead we all sleep in “personal sleep pods,” which are claustrophobically small chambers built into the wall of our one-room apartment. Each has a sliding door so you can close yourself inside, but no one uses it because that makes the claustrophobia even worse. The sleep pods are stacked two by two like bunk beds, so I have to climb into mine. It's more like a tomb than a bedroom.

With all of that, it was hard enough to sleep on a normal night, let alone when I knew one of the most important discoveries in human history was about to be revealed.

I tossed and turned for hours, then finally gave up and dragged myself from bed at six a.m., figuring I could at least check the SlimScreen for the latest news from earth. However, as I clambered out of my pod, my six-year-old sister, Violet, popped her head out of hers.

“Morning, Dash!” she chirped. “Is it breakfast time?”

“Not quite yet,” I whispered, trying not to wake our parents. “Go back to sleep.”

“I hope there's bacon this morning!” she said, ignoring me. “D'you think there's bacon?”

“No,” I sighed. “There has never been bacon here, and as far as I know, there never will be.”

Violet frowned for a split second, then returned to her usual perky self. “Okay. I guess I'll have waffles, then!” She scrambled out of her pod and drifted down to the floor next to me. On earth Violet barely weighed forty pounds; in the moon's weak gravity, she might as well have been a leaf. She was wearing bright pink Hello Kitty pajamas, and her dark hair was sticking out every which way, making her look like Thing One from
The Cat in the Hat
. “Is the rocket here yet?”

I turned to her, surprised. In my excitement about Dr. Holtz, I'd completely forgotten that a rocket was due that day, bringing new Moonies and supplies. The rockets only come every few weeks, which makes their arrivals one of
the rare breaks from the dull routine of lunar life. “No. It's not due for another few hours. If it doesn't get delayed.”

“Oh. Maybe
they'll
have bacon!”

“I wouldn't get your hopes up.”

“Too late! They're up! Want to play chess?”

“You don't know how to play chess.”

“I know what all the pieces do!”

“That's not the same thing,” I said.

“Did someone mention chess?” My mother slipped out of her own sleep pod. In the one next to hers I caught a glimpse of Dad, who groaned at the early hour and yanked the covers back over his head. Obviously, Violet's refusal to whisper had woken both of them, although Mom, as usual, did her best not to show any annoyance.

“I've got time for a little chess before breakfast,” she said, tousling Violet's hair. The two of them look so much alike, with their frizzy hair, dark skin, and green eyes, that people often teasingly ask if Mom just cloned herself. Mom looked to me. “Unless
you
want to play something too? Then I could pick a game for all three of us.”

“Ooh! Like Monopoly!” Violet exclaimed. “We can play the Moon Base Alpha version!”

“No, thanks,” I said.

“You sure?” Mom asked.

“Definitely.” I was too keyed up to spend the next few
hours playing a game—and I certainly wasn't about to play one that took place at Moon Base Alpha. I felt trapped there enough as it was.

“Your loss,” Mom chided. Then she turned to the SlimScreen. “Computer: Chess, please.”

Although computers have been able to control everything in homes on earth for years, Mom and Dad always hated the idea. They never installed a control system back in Hawaii. But at MBA the base computer is hardwired into every room, eternally ready to do anything we ask. Fortunately, we can adjust its personality in our private quarters. So Mom and Dad selected the funniest voice they could find: an outrageous, high-pitched German accent.

“It vould be my pleasure!” the computer squealed. “Vhat version of chess do you desire?”

Mom stifled a laugh. “Surprise us,” she said.

“I vill do my best,
meine Frau
.” On our only table, the SlimScreen surface shifted from the standard simulated-marble screen saver to a three-dimensional, holographic chess game. The computer had selected an extremely ornate version, with pieces that looked like they'd been molded from pure gold and silver and studded with precious gems.

“Ooh!” Violet gasped. “Can you make my pieces pink?”

“I'm afraid I don't have ze ability to emit odors,” the computer replied. “Zerefore, I cannot make zem stink.”

“Not stink!” Mom snapped. “
Pink!
Can you make her pieces
pink
?”

The computer makes this sort of mistake a lot. Despite billions of dollars in research and development, no tech company has perfected voice-recognition software yet. Even the most state-of-the-art systems screw up. (There's a rumor that World War III almost started when the computer in charge of the North American nuclear missile system misinterpreted a commander saying “I hate syrup” as “annihilate Europe.”)

“I'm terribly sorry for ze mistake,
Fraulein
,” our computer replied. “I vill correct zis right away.” All the golden chess pieces instantly became neon pink.

Violet clapped her hands with delight and sat at the table.

Like the beds, all our chairs at MBA are inflatable: uncomfortable, unwieldy cubes of cheap, squeaky rubber. Whenever you sit on one, it sounds as though you just passed gas.

Mom pulled up an InflatiCube across from Violet. “All right, pumpkin. You go first.”

Just so you know, chess isn't Mom's standard pastime. Usually when people hear my parents are scientists, they assume they're awkward, unathletic nerds whose idea of fun is doing long division. That drives me nuts. My parents are the least nerdy people you've ever met. Mom swam competitively in college and competed in triathlons up until we left
earth. Dad is a rugged outdoorsman; he's summited dozens of mountains and once free-climbed El Capitan in Yosemite in a day. They met on a Class 5 rafting trip down the Snake River.

But more important, my parents aren't unusual. I've met hundreds of scientists, and most are almost as athletic and adventurous as my parents. I'm not sure how the whole idea that scientists are nerds ever got started. On Moon Base Alpha, the residents aren't merely brilliant; they are also incredibly physically fit. The MBA gym at peak hours looks more like the locker room of a pro soccer team.

Unable to focus on the chess game, I turned to the main SlimScreen in our room. This one is enormous, taking up an entire wall. We don't have a window—almost no one at MBA does, as windows are insanely expensive to deliver and install in space—so we use the screen saver to give ourselves a view. It was currently displaying Hapuna Beach on the Big Island at sunrise, waves lapping on the sand. Frankly, I prefer this to a window. We can project anything we want, while the surface of the moon is dull and gray and, since there is no atmosphere, never changes.

“Computer, bring up the home page on the big screen,” I said.

“Ja, mein Herr.”
Hapuna Beach vanished and the MBA home page took its place.

I scanned it quickly, hoping to see that Dr. Holtz had
called an important meeting for all residents. But there was nothing. In fact the page hadn't even been updated recently: The previous night's Lunar Book Club meeting was still listed as the next “upcoming event” in the calendar.

I couldn't wait in the room any longer. It was feeling even smaller than usual to me. Although Dr. Holtz had said he wouldn't be revealing his discovery until seven o'clock, I figured he might be too excited to sit tight as well. Maybe he was already down in the communal kitchen, holding court. I went to our bureau to grab some clothes.

“Going out already?” Mom asked. “What's the hurry?”

“I'm hungry,” I said.

“You didn't even check the World Series scores.” Mom sounded slightly suspicious.

“I checked them in the middle of the night,” I said. “Charlotte beat Vegas, six to three.”

Dad groaned from his sleep pod. “You're kidding.”

“No. William Higgins hit a grand slam in the eighth off Jed Bynum.”

“What were you doing up in the middle of the night?” Mom asked.

“Bathroom. Revenge of the chicken parmigiana.” It didn't take long for me to pick out clothes. Since the moon base is kept sterile, our clothes don't get very dirty—which is good, as we have limited storage space and only
one laundry machine at MBA. (Luckily, even if you work out hard, your clothes don't end up smelly, as it's the dirt and grime mixing with your sweat that makes the stink on earth.) Each pair of clothes can be worn multiple times before needing a wash, so we Moonies brought only ten outfits each for our three-year stay. This was fine with me, as I had basically worn a T-shirt and shorts every day back on earth, though some Moonies found life with only ten outfits as awful as I found life without decent food. I pulled on my Waimea Middle School surf team tee and yanked board shorts over the boxers I'd slept in.

As I strapped on my smartwatch, I noticed a message on its tiny video screen: I'd missed a call from Riley Bock, my best friend back on earth, the night before. I texted Riley that I'd call her later; she was probably still asleep—it was one a.m. in Hawaii—and besides, there was too much else to focus on that morning. I slipped into my sneakers and headed for the door.

Violet abandoned her chess game and ran after me. “I'm hungry too! I want waffles! Waffles waffles waffles!”

“Dash, can you wait for your sister to get ready?” Mom asked.

“No.” I didn't even slow down on my way out. “It always takes her fifteen minutes to get dressed. I could eat and be back by then.”

“I don't need to get dressed!” Violet announced. “I'll just wear my pajamas!”

“I thought you wanted to play chess,” I said.

“I want waffles more!”

We don't have real waffles on the moon, of course. We only have reconstituted waffle-flavored substance. It tastes like coagulated maple syrup, but Violet loves it. She's the only one at MBA who eats it.

I grabbed the doorknob, ready to walk out anyhow.

“Dash. Wait for your sister,” Mom ordered.

I stopped, knowing better than to disobey my mother. The last thing I needed was to be sent to my sleeping pod. “Let's move it, squirt,” I told Violet.

“Let me get my slippers!” Violet scurried back to her pod, singing a song about waffles.

Violet could make up a song about anything. She once performed practically an entire opera about clipping her toenails. Now she was happily crooning, “I love waffles! They're not awful! They taste so good!”

A strange, urgent beeping suddenly filled the room. It sounded like a giant microwave announcing that the popcorn was done. It took me a moment to figure out it was coming from both SlimScreens at once. On the wall and the tabletop, the home page and the chess game vanished and were replaced with a message in blinking red letters:

*  *  *

Urgent communication for Dr. Rose Harris & Dr. Steven Gibson. Log in to the secure portal immediately.

I hadn't even known information could be delivered this way. I turned to my mother, who looked as surprised by it as I was. Violet danced around, excited by the noise, and added her own whooping to it. Dad still hadn't emerged from his sleeping pod. At the sound of the alarm he had jammed his fingers in his ears and burrowed under the covers.

Dad had never been a morning person.

“Steven,” Mom called to him. “You'd better take a look at this.”

Dad stuck his head out of the pod and glanced at the big SlimScreen. He looked like a squirrel peeking out of its nest. “What the heck is that about?” he grumbled.

Mom shrugged. She was already using the tabletop SlimScreen to log in to the portal.

I was humming with excitement, figuring the emergency message had to do with Dr. Holtz's discovery. Maybe he hadn't been able to wait until seven and had already revealed his amazing news to the top brass at MBA, who were now getting the word out. Or maybe he was calling a big meeting to share the news with everyone at once.

I opened our door to see if anything was happening. There are two tiers of residences at Moon Base Alpha. Ours is on the second floor, one down from the end. The door opens onto
an iron catwalk. (Catwalks are easier to ship and install than real floors.) Over the railing I could see the first-floor hallway below. No one was moving on either level, though the same urgent beeping was coming through the other residence doors. Two residences to the right of mine I could hear the muffled sounds of the Brahmaputra-Marquez family groggily waking.