Girl on the Moon

by Burnett, Jack McDonald

  She lied and said, “Yes, he’s moving. I have cable. Is there any way to get me on his frequency?” There wasn’t. Brownsville said they would relay to the Chinese that she was attempting a rescue, and they would let their taikonaut know.

  “Only the cable goes over—not you,” Gil said.

  Conn wound one end of the cable around a boulder, then lowered the other end and tried to get the taikonaut’s attention by waving it, to no avail. She thought for a moment, then reeled it back in, coiled it in a long loop, leaned over, and swatted his head with it. It worked: the taikonaut stirred, pulling himself up on his elbows just enough to see up.

  He saw Conn and the cable. Conn showed him it was attached to a boulder, not just her. He let go with one hand and flailed at the cable, missed—tried again, and got it. But then he slipped, sliding down the ridge with a one-handed grip on the cable, pulling it taut. It held. But the taikonaut’s pressure suit’s bulk was such that he couldn’t reach over his head with his other hand.

  He tried to get purchase to push himself up, but his feet were dangling over the abyss. Up on the ridge, Conn was trying to lift the taut cable up far enough to get herself underneath it, for leverage. Their combined efforts got her to where she was able to duck underneath and put the cable across her shoulders. She hoped to God the cable didn’t break from all this—durability wasn’t the number one priority in an environment with no life and no atmosphere.

  Conn tried to stand from her crouch and pull the taikonaut up the slope. Even at one-sixth gravity, it was difficult—if man and suit weighed four hundred pounds on Earth, they weighed sixty-seven on the moon. She moved him up a few inches, far enough for him to get a grip on the slope with his feet and then he climbed far enough to reach the cable with his other hand.

  Conn kept the cable on her shoulders and slowly backed up as the taikonaut pulled himself over the lip of the rille. He and Conn both crumpled in relief.

  After a time, the taikonaut rolled over and peered over the side, probably looking for a sign of his crewmate. Or just getting a better idea what his fate would have been had he not been rescued. Conn mimed that she wanted to check his pressure suit for holes. He let her, and then examined her in return. He gave her duct tape work a silent and weary thumbs up. They faced one another and fell into an awkward hug.

  # # #

  Conn blamed herself, which she knew was inappropriate. Chinese operations control had advised Cai Fang that Conn was exploring along the canyon, and had been screaming at him to slow the rover down. Seconds before the crash, Luan Yongpo, the survivor, had seen Conn and had tried to get Cai to stop.

  The ultimate fault, perhaps, was in the amphetamines the Chinese taikonauts had taken, the better to be awake and alert when the aliens arrived. Luan speculated that Cai might have taken a double dose.

  Conn didn’t envy Luan, who had to continue the mission and serve as China’s ambassador to the moon-shower aliens in some fraction of twenty-four hours. She wondered remotely if Cai Fang had been bipolar, undiagnosed. Amphetamines were dangerous for bipolar people. An overdose doubly so, she imagined.

  Conn was scheduled to go back inside the lander for an hour at 2:00 p.m. central. She went in early. She was scheduled to test the lander’s rover capabilities, just get it moving a little bit. She would do that in due time. For now, she took her suit off—no feed coverage—and cried.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Arrival

  September 1–2, 2034 (UTC)

  Erik Tyzhnych and Scott Daniels slept until 6:00 p.m. central time—midnight UTC—right through the accident. Luan was still inside his own lander. He was scheduled to come back outside at midnight UTC, and the Chinese said the mission was still on and would be accomplished, so Luan had to be ready—or at least able—to meet the alien visitors.

  Conn was outside again, alone, sifting through basalt in the name of science. She had been outside for three of eight scheduled hours as the date turned to September 2 in London.

  She had broken the lander in as a wheeled rover/vehicle. She was meant to only drive it enough to be confident it worked, but she sought and got permission to move closer to the European lander. There was no operational advantage to moving. But after the morning’s tragedy, she was feeling a powerful disinclination to be alone.

  The rover drew power partly from the lander’s fuel cells and partly from Conn pedaling to augment the fuel cells and keep them from draining too fast. It managed a spritely five kilometers per hour. Once the day’s history was made, she would be able to cover a great deal of ground.

  Conn didn’t care if most of the science she was doing was ultimately the property of this or that corporation. She was exploring the moon, helping humankind learn what it was made of. She was examining craters made by meteors hundreds of millions of years ago. Even when she was setting up sensors and antennas for purposes she did not know, she was exploiting her unique opportunity on the moon. On the moon! And Peo had taught her that profit motive was not, by itself, a bad thing. The possibility of profit was how the majority of science in the world got done.

  She was making her way back toward her lander. Daniels and Eyechart, next door, were due outside in another twenty minutes.

  As she approached the landers, she saw an astronaut standing outside them, looking her way. Old-time, Apollo-era space suit. Someone in a backup suit? Luan?

  She called to him over the radio. No response. Luan must still be tuned to the Chinese proprietary frequency.

  “Brownsville, can we do something to get Luan on our frequency? It really would have helped this morning.”

  “Copy that, Conn.” Sandy Kearns was CapCom, now. “They have given Luan the OK to use our frequency.”

  “Roger that. Hello!” She waved an arm at Luan. No response.

  “Conn, say again. Hello?”

  “I was talking to Luan.” She was ten feet from him, now.

  “Uh, Conn, are you at the Chinese lander?”

  What kind of question was that?

  “No, I’m—”

  “Wait. Who is that?”

  “Who? It’s Luan. Unless, wait—” The suit had an American flag patch on the left arm.

  “Conn, who is that?” There was a higher-than-professional pitch to Sandy Kearns’s voice. She was agitated. Scared?

  “Brownsville, you tell me. Daniels, is that you?”

  Nothing in response.

  Then Kearns said, in an even voice, “Conn, none of the others are outside yet.”

  Confusion washed over Conn. So it was Cai Fang—he survived the plunge into Hadley Rille and climbed out of the canyon. Right? Had he been wearing that space suit? He must have. It was him—that was why he couldn’t hear her.

  “Brownsville, this has to be Cai Fang. Right? Sandy?”

  “Conn—stand by—Conn, Scott Daniels advises they are suiting up and coming out ASAP. Conn, we believe that’s...um, who you’re there to meet with.”

  Conn’s jaw dropped. Gooseflesh riddled her. She staggered backward a few steps.

  The astronaut moved forward, arm out, as though to catch her if she fell. Conn recoiled, tripped over her own feet and came down on her tailbone.

  The astronaut had what looked like a radio around his—its?—neck. White, like the rest of the suit. Conn deduced it was supposed to be a radio because it said OFF, MAIN, [SOMETHING], TALK.

  It also said E. ALDRIN.

  Partially hidden by the radio was the Apollo 11 patch she had not seen earlier. This alien had dressed like Buzz Aldrin for their first contact with humans. Well, humanity’s first contact with them. That humanity knew of.

  She rose, careful to make no further sudden moves. She regarded the alien. She couldn’t see a face through the space suit’s visor, only her own reflection. She wondered how they were supposed to say anything to each other if they weren’t on the same frequency. She wondered how they were supposed to say anything to each another in any case, unless the alien spoke English.

  Time
to establish relationships.

  She extended her right arm.

  The alien knew what to do. It extended its right arm. The two shook hands.

  The motion-sensitive camera mounted on the outside of the lander beamed it all back to Earth at the speed of light.

  She wondered what was next—

  The alien wasn’t letting go.

  In fact, the alien was pulling her closer.

  She panicked.

  The alien brought one finger on its left hand up to its faceplate. As though to say, shhhhh. Then it made the OK sign.

  Conn fought her instinct to pull away. And run away. She would trust this alien because it would get Peo what she wanted. And because by now there were probably five billion people watching, and she was damned if they would see her run and hide.

  The alien drew her in, then moved to the side and behind her. He let go of her hand, but laid his glove on her upper arm. His left hand found her left hip. Don’t run don’t run don’t run don’t run, Conn chanted to herself. It was so hard. She didn’t even fear for her safety, in her intense desire just to be away from this utterly alien being. Who was dressed like Edwin E. “Buzz” Aldrin.

  Conn felt a tingle and saw the air in front of her undulate, like heat rising off asphalt. Never mind that there was no air. The alien turned her, careful to keep physical contact. This was going to be too much. It was one thing to have this thing pressed up against her back, another if it wanted a face-to-face hug.

  With its right hand this time, the alien made the shhhh and OK gestures again. Conn scrunched her eyes shut hard, and tried to fight the gorge rising in her.

  The alien began to remove one of her spacesuit gloves. OK, now relationship building had to take a back seat to survival. She tried to pull away, but the alien wouldn’t let her. It did the OK symbol again and kept taking off the glove.

  She didn’t explode.

  Was the undulating “air” some kind of field protecting her from the vacuum? She would not panic. Five billion people were watching. Peo was watching.

  She took a breath and pulled off her right glove herself. She held it in her left hand. Her right hand didn’t blow up into a bubble or shrivel or hurt, at all.

  Still keeping her close—and if the whatever field was keeping her pressurized, she didn’t want to stray too far—the alien clasped her hand again.

  This time was different.

  She felt a vibrating sensation. She assumed it was local to her hand, but then she realized it was in her head. Electrical impulses going off in her brain. She hoped to God she wouldn’t have a seizure. She hoped to God this thing didn’t give her brain damage.

  Brownsville wasn’t saying a word. Sporadically, Scott Daniels would come on the radio and promise they were hurrying and would be outside soon.

  Involuntarily, she shook her head. The vibration felt so weird.

  Then it was over, her hand released. The alien pointed at her glove, and mimed for her to put it on. Usually, she put her right-hand glove on first and the left with a gloved hand, so now she fumbled a bit. But she did it, and it sealed.

  Finally, Brownsville: “Conn, Luan is coming out, too.”

  “Thank you, Sandy,” she said. And heard a startled Sandy Kearns yelp before the connection was broken.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Getting to Know You

  September 2, 2034 (UTC)

  “Brownsville? What’s the matter?”

  The alien said, its guttural voice all rumbles and clicks, “You are speaking our language. You are not speaking English.” Conn shuddered: it was speaking not through the radio, but directly into her head.

  She gaped at it. “What—I can’t speak English anymore?”

  “You can speak English. Your brain is confused. Your brain expects one language.” Conn spoke passable French, two years in high school and one elective in college, and she started to say so. Then thought better of it. “Your brain is speaking our language. You can speak English,” it said again.

  She concentrated, then radioed, “Brownsville, I was just taught a new language. I think I used it by mistake and scared you all. I’m fine.”

  “Copy that, Conn,” Sandy Kearns said miserably.

  Conn concentrated again, segregating one language from the other. In...alien, she said, “My name is Constance Ashley Garrow. What is your name?”

  “Our language has a word which means constance,” the alien said. “We do not have a word which means Ashley. Nor Garrow. May I please call you Constance?”

  She wasn’t going to argue about Conn and Connie with an alien. “Yes. Thank you for asking.”

  “Thank you for asking,” the alien repeated. “You are welcome for asking. My name is Persisting. English has a word which means persisting.”

  “Yes, it does. May I please call you Persisting?”

  “Yes. Thank you for asking.”

  “You are welcome.”

  Daniels and Eyechart were finally hoofing it down their lander’s ladder. In the distance, Conn saw Luan hurrying toward them.

  “Persisting, there are four—no. Persisting, there are three more people like me coming. They may be scared. I was scared. They will cooperate with you. They will not harm you.”

  “Thank you for saying.”

  “Brownsville, I’ve been communicating off radio with our visitor, whose name in English would be Persisting.”

  “Say again—Persisting?”

  “Persisting, yes. As in: continuing to try to do something in the face of obstacles, Persisting. Daniels and the others are on their way. Persisting was kind enough to upload his language directly into my brain.”

  “Holy sh—uh, copy that, Conn.”

  Eyechart and Daniels arrived. Conn brought them up to speed. Eyechart had a whole speech, it seemed, and he started to recite it in Russian to Buzz Aldrin. Conn interrupted him. “If you let him upload his language first, you can use it, and he’ll understand what you’re saying,” she said. Eyechart looked angry, but offered his hand to the alien.

  “What have you found out?” Daniels asked. “Wait. Can he hear us?”

  “I don’t know. I assume so. He speaks telepathically.”

  “That’s a security problem,” Daniels said.

  “We don’t have anything to hide.”

  “You don’t.”

  Great. “I really think it’s just communication. Let’s ask,” Conn said.

  “We don’t have to—”

  “Excuse me. Persisting?” The alien was uploading his language into Eyechart’s brain. Conn considered how to ask the question so it would be best understood, yet not seem contentious. “Can you understand us if we don’t say anything?”

  “If I understand the question, the answer to the question is no.”

  “Do you understand what our phrase read minds means?”

  “Read minds...describes something that cannot be done. Do I know what you are thinking when you say nothing? Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “No.” Then Persisting repeated no with a word for which there was no corresponding word in English, but Conn understood the thrust: it was like someone in English saying “God, no,” or “goodness, no.” And more than that: Conn understood that in Persisting’s culture, you had a mother to nurture you, a father to feed and protect you, and a third participant in the process who tended to your spiritual needs. Not a priest, but someone in a familial relationship with you. Conn wanted to call it a brother or sister, there being, she realized, no word in the alien language for siblings—and three different words for what presumably were three different genders, anyhow. When she wrote her mission report, she would transcribe his response as “brother, no.”

  “Thank you, Persisting.”

  “You are welcome.”

  “OK?” she asked Daniels.

  “This decision needs to be made above my pay grade. Houston, switch channels, please. Conn, have our new friend do Luan next.”

  Eyechart
was giving his speech again, in the alien language, as best he could. He was struggling. Conn herself got a headache trying to speak the new language. Mother Russia is a great homeland, Eyechart was saying, the Russian people are exceptional, good friends to their friends, yada yada.

  He—and Conn—were talking, even though they couldn’t be heard the normal way. She didn’t feel like she could just think words to Persisting. They needed to be vocalized. She could “hear” Eyechart. And this was important: Conn could hear Persisting responding to Eyechart. So it wasn’t a one-brain-to-one-brain communication only.

  Conn needed to find out how that communication was done; if there was tech involved that humans could reproduce. It would make Peo bazillions. Oh, and uploading languages. And presumably other knowledge as well. A week ago, Conn might have confessed under duress that she didn’t always totally understand what she could accomplish for Peo up here on the moon. But she was starting to get a really good idea.

  Luan had seen enough to understand he would be safe, and so he underwent the upload as well. He greeted Persisting when it was over with a “sad feeling,” his friend and colleague who was among the best China had to offer having been killed. Persisting said he was sorry and that he was glad Luan was alive. For the stilted cadence, the simple sentence structure, and the absolute foreignness of Persisting, he knew a great deal about humankind, including things as difficult as how to give condolences. Conn supposed it could be that in Persisting’s culture, you did things the same way, but she somehow doubted it. While she was establishing a good relationship with the alien and any others that showed up, she would keep half a wary eye on their new friend.

  Likewise, she needed to watch Daniels: she hadn’t forgotten his “you don’t” response to her remark about having nothing to hide. Daniels got his upload, and his prepared greeting afterward was much more humankind-centered than Eyechart’s. Conn felt conspicuous for not having had a greeting ready, but her assembled colleagues were truly representatives of many millions in their nations and cultures. She wasn’t. And anyhow, she would take My name is ______, what’s yours? as a greeting over any of the others if she were the one being welcomed.