Moontender

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A homesick lunar astronaut's rendezvous with her lover.
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inkyscandal
inkyscandal
899 Followers

Author's Note: I'm taking risks here; new genre, my first female narrator, present tense, a more complex lead character, deeper metaphors, etc. All of which is to say I would love to hear your feedback on whether any of this works so I can learn from my mistakes. Please let me know.

For fans of my previous work, I hope this short tale remains enjoyable. Don't worry, it is still erotica.

Thanks and, as always, please enjoy!

*****

1.

"Mela," I hear Commander Briggs squawk in my headset, "Since TJ's not here... you've got L-Sector."

I nod and look down. There is no point in reacting otherwise. Everyone knows L-Sector is a fucking mess.

"Anybody else got extra batt-packs, optics or armor," Briggs continues, "loan 'em to her. That is not a request."

Silence. Every squad leader is on this channel for the meeting, but a chorus of crosstalk would be amateur. Silence means yes.

Briggs moves on.

I feel a nudge on the back of my boot. Without even looking I know it is Specter. I turn my head just enough to see him.

Fuck. How does he do that? So much in just a face.

He perceives my fear I'm sure, but I take no shame in that. Smarts are the only chops that count up here. Tough ain't enough.

Briggs dishes out the rest of the assignments. Nothing compares to what he's just given me though, so I tune him out and try to visualize everything I need to do.

Twelve men report to me, all with post-graduate degrees. Like me, most are on loan from military. I'm Navy; a career blue-water girl until five years ago when NASA called.

Now I'm stuck way the hell up here, serving the longest sixteen months of my life. I made squad leader after only ninety days, but that's mostly because Briggs needs me. I crush at process. I crush at risk containment. I crush EE-repair. All priceless.

Briggs knows I keep my squad alive. They know it too so they more than just abide; they adhere. To them I am Mother Mela.

Top it all, I give good mike. By that I mean my radio voice is good. Back when 'Houston Center' still meant something, if they had actually let a woman on the microphone I would have owned that job. Of course, my parents weren't even born yet... but you get me.

I'm not going to tell you what I look like. Simply appreciate, if you will, that on the South Pole of the Moon every woman is a goddess. The only more-desired women are those headed for Mars, but that level of scarcity requires a one way ticket. So no thanks.

I intend to feel water again, on Earth I mean, someday. We don't get real water here. More like clarified pee.

I used to be a fairly serious swimmer back home. State Finals, invitationals, that sort of thing. So water is a big deal. It gave me strength and endurance. Now lunar gravity helps too. The amount of gear I can hump up here would squash a man back home. I like that.

But I miss it... the feel and sound of water. Immersion.

Anyway, everybody swears up here. If you utter a sentence without at least one foul word, we check your tags to see if your mixture went rich. Not kidding.

Equipment maintenance is 6 hours of everyone's day. That's required. And no days off unless you want to get injured.

Our distance from Earth dictates everything: sleep cycles, work cycles, how we eat, how we defecate and, most obvious, how we breathe. Even though we're indoors, a thin plastic hoop runs under everyone's nose, leaking just the right amount of oxygen to bring our air up to an adequate mixture. Without it you get sleepy quick. Only a few spots in our station have healthy ambient air, such as the algae farms. Here in the tactical bubble it's stale no matter how hard we run the circulators. So you need the oxygen boost, which originates from a reclaimant system sewn between the layers of our coveralls. It runs on body heat, urine and CO2. It doesn't produce enough O2 to live on indefinitely, but it's enough to boost the mixture so we don't need to be helmeted indoors. You just have to remember to inhale through your nose. That's why we sometimes refer to our Earth-bound colleagues as mouth-breathers. Affectionately, of course... always affectionately.

Back on point: Fucking L-Sector. Probably not going to sleep much between now and when we go external. The tractor tugs will all need to be checked, packed and charged. I'll have to scrounge for extra everything: derma-plasters, stims, supplements and maybe a new encryption key too. Probably 16 hours until we go external, then 20-30 hours down in the flats, separating fresh cargo from the wreckage of their delivery modules. Once the tugs are fully loaded we'll drag everything back up here to base. That's when I'll sleep.

Hopefully.

As soon as the meeting breaks up I spring for the ladder-tunnel that leads to my squad's LSS. That's a Life Support Sphere for you mouth-breathers. We call them bubbles. Other than Comm Center and the farms, bubbles are the only structures that are heated. Each squad has their own, dug into the high rim of the Shackleton Crater in a scattered array, connected to each other by long ladder-tunnels.

From outside, the growing scale of our mountainside base is mostly hidden. There are a few spots where ladder-tubes break the surface to skirt some un-drillable mass, but otherwise the only above-ground features are the solar panels (eternally-lit at the rim's summit), the tractor hangar and three communications towers.

Like everything, that architecture is all about risk containment and survivability. Individuals are allowed to die, mind you, but not the mission. At least that's the idea. So one or two LSSs might get taken out by a micro-meteor or an air leak, but the rest will be far enough away to survive.

Everything here is architected like that: triple-redundant, modular, self-sustaining. Otherwise we'd all be dead rather than just some.

Space is death, after all.

As I bound along the tunnel using that queer step-step-hop we all adopt at one-sixth G, I switch my headset back to channel 12 and listen to my squad chattering amongst themselves. They don't know it yet, of course, and I can't help but imagine their reactions.

Fucking L-sector.

I exit the first tunnel and leap across a five-way junction into another. Forty meters into that tube, the lights flicker. I catch an overhead rung to get feet-forward and then skid to a stop. I look back. It's just Specter signaling me. He knows my channel, but clearly doesn't want go public.

I check the time and wait.

His knees dip as he lands beside me. When I look into his face I see them... the sad eyes.

He peels off his bulky noise-cancelling headset and tosses it behind his back so it hangs by the cord. I roll my eyes but do the same. It's how we get offline.

We move to one side of the tunnel together, into a nook between two structural ribs. I check both ways to make sure we are alone. The incessant mechanical and circulation noise is quieter here than in the bubbles, but still pretty loud when you're not accustomed to having your bare ears exposed.

You don't want to be out here in the tunnels for long without a suit on. They run close to the surface and the walls are thin, so if the sun is behind the mountain you'll eventually freeze. Also the radiation is higher. But it's a place you can be alone.

Specter squares-off with me and leans in close so I can hear.

"You hafta sleep before you go external," he says, overcoming the ambient noise.

I shake my head no.

He grabs my wrist and pulls. "You do!"

I glance over my shoulder, pretending to check for visitors, but he turns my face back to him with a finger.

There's that look again. Goddamn it.

I duck my head toward his ear and shout, "I don't have time!"

He takes hold of my shoulders and gently shakes me. "Yes. You do!"

I shrug him off and make a move as if to leave. He catches my hand.

I let him hold on, but shout: "Is that all?"

Of course this wounds him. So I get the sad eyes again. But whatever, right? I mean, I have a brick shithouse worth of mission-criticals right now and Specter just wants to make eyes at me.

"I have some good spares for you," he says, "suit plates, batt-packs, stuff like that. I'll bring them later!"

I nod. My mind is back on-task, checklists unfurling behind my eyes. Again I glance toward my bubble.

"Also," he continues, "Mouse owes me a heater!"

My eyes snap back to him and my brain staggers off-course. He squeezes my hand.

I scowl at him, shouting: "Are you out of your mind?"

His smile becomes a grin and then fades into something more complex. Something emotional. Something I seriously don't have time for.

Shit.

I shake my head.

It's his turn to glance away.

We check for visitors. Still just us.

With sudden confidence he puts an arm around my waist and pulls me in. He speaks directly into my ear: "You need to sleep, Mela. Please!"

"Bullshit, Spec." I answer him, letting my lips graze his ear. "Sleep is not on your mind."

His hand slides up my back, pulling my whole body closer. We are cheek-to-cheek.

"Yes it is. It's not the only thing, but... you can't go out there on nothing but stims. It's not safe."

"Fuck you," I say, shoving free and adding fire to my voice. "Don't tell me how to do my job. I keep my guys safe, you got that?!"

He raises both hands in surrender and mouths a 'sorry' at me. But it's no good. I'm already in my zone. I step out to the middle of the tunnel and fish for my headset. I can tell my face is still scowling by the tension across my brow.

He puts both hands to his chest and wobbles his head like a worried parent. It's just a routine though; funny because he's five years younger than me. He wants me to laugh.

I power-up my mic and stare down the tunnel toward my responsibilities. I don't want to give him the satisfaction of showing it but I do feel better.

It's nice to be wanted.

I look at him once more, long enough to see him wink. That gets me, pulls my cheeks into a thin smile. He laughs happily at this but of course I can't hear him anymore.

Channel 12 is a-chatter with competing quotes from some childhood video game I probably never played.

Still looking at Specter, I tap the top of my head with a flat hand. It means: 'I'm okay.'

He gives me a thumbs-up.

I grab a rung and launch myself toward my job.

"Gentlemen of squad seven," I break-in using my most languid test pilot drawl, "this is your mother speaking. I am inbound. You have two minutes to put away the porn and get dressed."

Of course with an opening like that my resident comedian, Stain, can't help himself. He squawks: "But I'm so close Mama! I'm so close, I'm... Ah! AAH! Ahhhhhhhhh..."

I key my mute button and chuckle.

There is quiet. I let them enjoy it. Two more minutes of blissful ignorance before I reach the bubble and drop that we're going to L-Sector.

Two more minutes before they hate me. Because they will.

2.

Our squad bubble is muggy with burned calories. Everyone is sweating.

Gear lays strewn across the cots, torn-down, half-assembled or somewhere in between. Stuff we had thoroughly cleaned after our previous external is being ripped apart and cleaned again.

Fucking lunar dust sticks to everything. It scratches too, like sandpaper on skin. So it ALL has to come out before we suit-up. It takes hours.

Donations trickle in from other squads. Stain gets some new kneepads; the good kind that don't rotate outward as you move. Mickey-D scores a collapsible flare-shield big enough for three or four of us to hide under if the worst happens.

Then Specter shows up hauling a stretch-net full of gear. Some of it looks brand new. The guys swarm him and start pulling boxes out like Christmas. Happy curses clog our channel.

All I can do is look at him and nod. Anything more would invite suspicion.

I keep one eye on Specter as he helps the guys sort through the gifts. He works his way from cot to cot, checking their prep levels. He's repeating what I've already done, but I don't mind. The more eyes the better.

When he finally makes it over to my area, he slips a thin rectangular cartridge into my hand. It's a new encryption key, still sealed. Probably one of the last.

I let my fingers linger on his palm and mouth: 'Thank you.'

He lets me off with a shrug as if it is nothing even though it is everything. If our comms can't be hacked, the 'rogues' (that's the politically-correct term we have to use) will think twice before going kinetic. Fresh encryption is a Godsend.

Now empty-handed, Specter turns to leave. He stays on our channel though, I realize, because as soon as there is a pause in the chatter he squawks a simple: "I'll be back."

Meaning for me. Meaning he intends to rig up the damn heater Mouse owes him somewhere. Meaning he intends to bed me again... at least once... before I go external.

Jesus Christ. Who does he think he is? And why... why-oh-why... do I find his stupid earnestness so disarming?

3.

Hours have gone by. I'm fried, unclean and dry-eyed from the constant breeze of circ air. There is still much to do.

Channel 12 squawks in everyone's ear: "Mother Mela, this is Specter. You copy?"

Without breaking my rhythm I answer: "Copy."

"Pixar 3-30 please."

Ugh. Here we go. That's our little code for switching to another channel. '3-30' means we both switch 3 channels higher and listen for 30 seconds to see if it's quiet. If it's busy, we move up three more channels and repeat. In theory we could cycle through every frequency together without a word until we find a quiet one.

"Wilco," I squawk, checking the time.

Within a few minutes we are on Channel 24. It sounds vacant.

"You there?" he breaks-in after the requisite thirty seconds.

"Yes."

"Slept any yet?"

"'Course not."

"Well... It's ready. Near the bottom of Farm 6. How soon can you get there?"

I torment him by not answering for a dozen seconds or so. I check the time again. I think about the odds of getting caught and the routes I could take to get there.

"Twenty minutes. Maybe twice that."

"Okay," he answers, failing to sound nonchalant. "Remember: F6, at the bottom by the anchor tube."

"I copy. Out."

I switch back to channel 12. My guys are mostly quiet now, each in his own zone, getting ready or napping. Three of them are out at the tractor hangar, supervising the load-out.

I should be focused on them, on the mission, on helping to pack the tractor tugs and tender, on running seal-and-purge drills... something!

I'm too strung-out to sleep and too sweaty for what Specter wants. And now I feel guilty because I want it too.

I consider flaking on him. It wouldn't be the first time. In fact it would be textbook Mela. Or that's what he'd say once he got over it.

But twenty minutes later I'm halfway to him, having told my squad to get some rest and that I was leaving to scavenge-up a new encryption key. A white lie, but still.

I find Specter right where he said he would be, in the horribly fragrant damp of Farm 6.

"Charming place, Spec," I yell after peeling my headset off. "I didn't know you had a thing for algae!"

He smiles. "Keep your pants on. We're not staying. Follow me!"

"Wait! Who is this for? Me or you?"

"Both!"

Well at least he's honest. I roll my eyes but it's an admission of consent. He grins and leads me into the anchor-tube.

For five minutes we crawl, hop and climb our way down a vertical shaft I've never been in before. The air gets drier the lower we go, but also colder. My skin is damp in the breeze. I start to shiver.

"What the fuck, Spec?" I call after him. "Where does this thing go?"

He looks back to reassure, then waves me on downward. We drop eight to ten ladder-rungs at a time, deeper and deeper underground.

The ambient decibels roll off steeply. I realize I can hear the metallic 'ping' of our boots impacting each rung. It's a sound I haven't heard in ages.

Jesus that's weird.

I stop and check my tag, doubting the air quality. But it reads okay; still in the green zone.

I look down and see Specter stopped below me. He's pointing sideways at something. I drop to his level and see a door.

"What the hell is in there?" I ask incredulously.

"A heater, a hammock and a shitload of seedstock."

I shake my head and laugh while he queries-up a code on his forearm tablet and punches it into the lock. The light above the hatch goes from red to green. He slides it open and ducks in. Bright lights auto-activate inside.

Out of curiosity more than anything else, I follow him in.

He's done well, actually. It's cozy. The heater is one of the infamous "lost" ones, serial numbers filed off and no longer listed on any official inventory system. These things get passed around among the crew. One can only imagine the stories they'd tell.

He shuts the hatch behind me, knocking the noise level to near zero. Only the soft hum of the heater remains.

"God," I whisper. "Listen to that."

He grins: "I know. Amazing, right?"

"Real silence. My ears are freaking out."

"Yeah. Just give it time. Your body will remember..."

We exchange a steady look, confirming his subtext.

"I don't want to know," I say several heartbeats later, "what you did to arrange this. I'm violating enough regs already just being here."

He approaches and rests his palm against my face. His other hand reaches for my waist but I twist aside and frown, saying too loudly for the quiet, "I'm gross right now."

He doesn't hesitate. Pulls me into his arms and latches his mouth onto my neck, just below my ear.

God that's unfair! His stubble makes me tickle all the way down to my toes. He shouldn't be able to do that to me.

My hands land on his shoulders, which are broader than mine and taller. Solid feeling; like the hands across my back now, bending me into his embrace. His lips find my ear, then my cheek.

I know what's coming and I know I'm not ready for it. Not to be kissed. I work too hard on this mask to let it shatter so quickly. I tuck my chin and bore into his shoulder, letting him know.

He slackens his hold on me a few degrees and whispers: "Yeah... s'alright."

We stand there, simply holding each other and not talking. My forehead rests on his collar. I'm looking down at the confluence of our clothing. The novelty of quietness throbs in my ears.

Inside my mind I feel an exchange of control begin; a tilting of levers that I would never allow if we were not alone.

"It just... takes a while," I whisper.

"I know," he answers softly. "I know."

I feel him kiss the top of my head once. Then he rests there, maybe on his cheek - I can't tell. But he rocks us back and forth.

The heater feels warm. The air around us is dry and clean and smells vaguely of bread.

I close my eyes. Another minute passes, maybe more, before it hits me.

Suddenly my throat clamps tight and my stomach drops out from under me, revealing a vacancy I've hidden for weeks.

Terror rushes in.

I dig my fingers into Specter and squeeze. My face knots shut, wringing out that most difficult tear. Behind it an entire sea awaits.

And poof! Just like that I'm sobbing. My knees cave. Specter hangs on, keeping me close as we sink together to the floor.

"It's okay, Mela," he whispers. "It's alright."

"No... I miss it!" I blubber between gasps.

My abdomen is in seizure, folding me into a ball within his arms. I don't want this constant fear. I don't want this command. I miss the salt air, the gulls and the slow boom-shush of surf. I want to be a child again, hiding in the folds of my mother's dress... still oblivious to our shared fragility.

"Shhh," he repeats.

"No," I croak. "Why is this... happening to me?"

"It's not your fault. Everyone goes through it."

"Not this late! I... I can't fake it anymore... I'm barely here."

inkyscandal
inkyscandal
899 Followers
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