by Stuart Gibbs
To my dismay, the toilet jammed. It made a loud gagging noise, like a cat with a hairball. Then a message on the SlimScreen informed me that the separator had failed and wouldn’t evacuate my poop until it was replaced. Unfortunately, I had no idea what a separator was.
“Help,” I said.
“How may I be of assistance?” the base computer asked, speaking through the SlimScreen. The base computer always speaks in an attractive female voice. (That’s one thing the movies got right, although I think the computer might have been programmed with a female voice because the movies had conditioned us to expect one.) Most of the time it’s rather soothing, but when you’re a twelve-year-old boy on the toilet with your pants around your ankles, a sexy female voice can be a bit unnerving.
“How do I replace the separator on the toilet?” I asked, and then thought to add, “Quickly.”
“I would be delighted to process your request,” the computer replied. A second later, instructions appeared on the screen. Thankfully, they weren’t too complicated and there were several spare separators stored in a bin above the toilet. Replacing it still wasn’t easy, though. It took another fifteen minutes, which was why I was still in the bathroom when Dr. Holtz walked in.
Ronald Holtz was one of the most brilliant men I’d ever met. He was an expert in low-gravity human physiology—essentially, how the body holds up in space—and was his own best guinea pig. He had done three extended tours on the International Space Station and thus had spent more time in space than virtually anyone alive. He was now almost seventy, though he was in better shape than most men half his age. Plus everyone liked him: He was always cheerful and friendly, and he knew thousands of jokes. When the time had come to select a physician for the base, there hadn’t been any other choice.
I was almost done replacing the separator when I heard Dr. Holtz enter. I knew it was him because he was humming. Dr. Holtz hummed whenever he was in a good mood. He was doing an upbeat tune that night, one my parents liked by some old-time singer named Lady Gaga. He didn’t have any idea I was there and I didn’t try to tell him. I liked Dr. Holtz a lot, but I didn’t want to startle him—and I didn’t want to reveal that I’d busted the toilet. I listened to him enter the first stall, pee, evacuate it, and sanitize his hands, humming the whole time. He was walking out when I heard him stop suddenly.
“Hey,” he said, as though he was greeting someone.
I hadn’t heard anyone else enter, so I assumed Dr. Holtz had just answered a phone call. He didn’t seem very surprised to be doing this at two thirty in the morning, so I figured he’d been expecting the call.
I felt guilty eavesdropping, but I also didn’t want to burst out of the stall and suddenly reveal my presence. I couldn’t think of a third option, so I stayed put and listened.
“Yes,” Dr. Holtz said, “I think the time has come to reveal the truth.”
The other person must have asked why.
“Because I don’t see any point in keeping it a secret anymore,” Dr. Holtz replied. “It’s too important. I know you have reservations, but I assure you, this is for the best.”
There was a pause while he listened to the other person talking.
The space toilet chose this moment to belch some gas that had built up in the system. Luckily, it wasn’t loud, and Dr. Holtz was too distracted to notice. However, since I was perched right over the bowl, the gust of space-sewage fumes hit me full on. It was like having an elephant break wind in my face. I almost heaved up the rest of my chicken parm.
“No, I don’t think so,” Dr. Holtz said, out in the bathroom. “This could be the most important discovery in all of human history. I’ve kept it under wraps for far longer than I expected, as is. People need to know—”
Another pause.
“Well, no, I can’t tell everyone,” Holtz said. “Not yet. I don’t have the authority to inform the general public. But NASA should know about this. And the government. And the National Institute of Science. There are far better scientists than I who ought to be privy to this.”
Another pause.
While I was fascinated by what Dr. Holtz was saying, wondering what he could possibly be talking about, I was also desperately trying to control my queasy stomach. The nausea was passing, but it was taking its time. If the toilet released any more gas, I’d puke for sure.
When Dr. Holtz spoke again, he sounded thrilled. Giddy with excitement. “Then you agree? That’s fantastic! I promise, you won’t regret this. Everything’s going to be fine. Better than fine. It’s going to be wonderful!”
The other person evidently asked when the news was going to be revealed.
“First thing in the morning,” Dr. Holtz replied. “I’d wake everyone here and tell them now if I could. We’ve waited long enough.”
A final pause.
“All right. Let’s say breakfast, then. Seven o’clock. Tomorrow we’re going to make history!”
Dr. Holtz then broke into laughter. Deliriously happy, uncontrolled laughter. Although I’d found his entire conversation intriguing, this was the most startling thing of all. I’d never heard Dr. Holtz laugh like that before. In fact I’d never heard anyone laugh like that before. It was like he’d just snorted a whole tank of laughing gas. I listened to it fade away as Dr. Holtz left the bathroom and headed back toward the living quarters.
My stomach was feeling better, so I thought about running after Dr. Holtz and asking what was up, but I had my hands full with the toilet repairs. In retrospect, I wish I’d said to heck with the toilet. Because Dr. Holtz didn’t end up revealing his amazing news to anyone the next morning after all.
Instead, at five thirty a.m., in a direct violation of official Moon Base Alpha rules, he made an unauthorized trip through the air lock onto the surface of the moon.
Two minutes later he was dead.
Excerpt from The Official Residents’ Guide to Moon Base Alpha, © 2040 by National Aeronautics and Space Administration:
LODGING
Each individual family at Moon Base Alpha has its own separate residence, which has been designed to provide extreme comfort and maximum living space. (In fact, if you have come to MBA from New York City or Beijing, you may even find your residence surprisingly large compared to what you’re used to!)
All units are equipped with multiple SlimScreens (enough for the whole family!), direct ComLink connections to earth, ample storage space, and relaxing sleeping quarters. And with SlimScreen’s MagicPortal technology, your private “view” can be personalized to any of three million earth locations, allowing you a reminder of home—or a taste of adventure!
RED ALERT
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 reg
ular 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!”
