by Neil Clarke
(Moisture spatters upon the walkway outside. Angry dark clouds boil up from the horizon.)
They will peel him then. Sharp and cold and hard, now it comes, but, but—
(Waves hiss on yellow sand. A green sun wobbles above the seascape. Strange birds twitter and call.)
Of course, in countering their assault upon the station, I shall bring all my hoarded assets into play.
And we all know that I cannot save everyone.
Don’t you?
They come at us through my many branches. Up the tendrils of ceramic and steel. Through my microwave dishes and phased arrays. Sounding me with gamma rays and traitor cyber-personas.
They have been planning this for decades. But I have known it was coming for centuries.
The Benjan singleton reaches me in time. Nearly.
He struggles with their minions. I help. I am many and he is one. He is quick, I am slow. That he is one of the originals does matter to me. I harbor the same affection for him that one does for a favorite finger.
I hit the first one of the bastards square on. It goes to pieces just as it swings the claw thing at me.
Damn! it’s good to be back in a body again. My muscles bunching under tight skin, huffing in hot breaths, happy primate murder-joy shooting adrenaline-quick.
One of the Majiken comes in slow as weather and I cut him in two. Been centuries since I even thought of doing somethin’ like that. Thumping heart, yelling, joyful slashing at them with tractor spin-waves, the whole business.
A hell of a lot of ‘em, though.
They hit me in shoulder and knee and I go down, pain shooting, swimming in the low centrifugal g of the station. Centuries ago I wanted to go swimming in the clear blue seas of Luna, I recall. In warm tropical waters at the equator, under silvery Earthshine . . .
But she is there. I swerve and dodge and she stays right with me. We waltz through the bastards. Shards flying all around and vacuum sucking at me but her in my veins. Throat-tightening pure joy in my chest.
Strumming notes sound through me and it is she
Fully in me, at last
Gift of the station in all its spaces For which we give thanks yea verily in this the ever-consuming moment—
Then there is a pain there and I look down and my left arm is gone.
Just like that.
And she of ages past is with me now.
-and even if he is just digits running somewhere, he can relive scenes, the grainy stuff of life. He feels a rush of warm joy. Benjan will escape, will go on. Yet so will he, the mere simulation, in his own abstract way.
Distant agonies echo. Coming nearer now. He withdraws further.
As the world slows to frozen silence outside he shall meditate upon his memories. It is like growing old, but reliving all scenes of the past with sharpness and flavor retained.
-(The scent of new-cut grass curls up red and sweet and humming through his nostrils. The summer day is warm; a Gray wind caresses him, cool and smooth. A piece of chocolate bursts its muddy flavor in his mouth.)
Time enough to think over what has happened, what it means. He opens himself to the moment. It sweeps him up, wraps him in a yawning bath of sensation. He opens himself. Each instant splinters sharp into points of perception. He opens himself. He. Opens. Himself.
Gray is not solely for humanity. There are greater categories now. Larger perspectives on the world beckon to us. To us all.
You know many things, but what he knows is both less and more than what I tell to us.
—-for Martin Fogg
2006
The father of three adult daughters and grandfather to one small girl, William Preston teaches high school English at an independent school near Syracuse, New York. A reader of many science books as a child—including the children’s book that inspired this story—he watched the moon landings and Star Trek and is happy he somehow managed to help guide his children into also finding joy and interest in the sciences. Most of his published fiction has appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, where his “Old Man” series has attracted the attention of pulp fiction fans. Most nights in Syracuse, the moon is obscured by clouds, but he looks for it nevertheless both day and night and loves its constant inconstancy.
YOU WILL GO TO THE MOON
William Preston
I had a hard enough time after my parents moved to Arizona. To picture where they lived, I imagined a map of the country, the states in various colors, the mountain ranges indicated by shadows. This helped me conceive the distance from rural New Jersey to Tucson. Once I’d visited them, I could call to mind the landscape: their isolated house, the red earth, mountains taking in too-vivid sunsets that seemed like the planet’s first or last days.
I missed having my parents nearby, of course, but, more, I now lacked an excuse to see my old hometown. With no friends there, I had no reason to drive the two hours to southeastern Pennsylvania, that territory of rolling, innocuous hills, packed with development houses among a few remaining farmers’ fields. My little town, more heavily trafficked than in my childhood, held my whole past, my life before life became settled and responsible. My folks moved, and it cut off my access to that. My town surfaced in dreams, though always with me in towering buildings that hadn’t existed, trying to work my way downstairs to the main street and its tidy brick buildings and Colonial-era stone houses so close to the sidewalk. I was forty, married, with two girls.
The year I turned forty-three, my parents announced in a curt electronic note that they were moving again, this time to a retirement community on the moon. I sat on the back deck that night and looked in the direction of my hometown and then, for a longer time, at the moon’s thin, suspended crescent. Any thinner and it would have vanished, the moon that night seemed barely able to support itself, much less life. I saw my parents seated in its sickle like figures from a child’s book of poems, their legs dangling in the hazy air.
My wife joined me on the deck steps. When I noticed the sweater draped over her shoulders, I fully realized what I’d half-thought, that the evening had grown cold.
“They won’t do it,” Cyndi said.
I shut my eyes. “It’s my father’s idea. It’ll happen. It’s like with Arizona. My mother didn’t want that.”
“Do you think he has friends up there?”
“You know, it’s not really up,” I said, giving her the brunt of feelings I hadn’t yet formed. “There’s no up; it’s all relative. Over. It’s over. It’s next to us. It’s not like heaven.”
“Heaven’s ‘up’ now?”
“Yeah. Heaven’s up.” I faced her and her crooked smile successfully cut into my mood. “But hell’s only about 10 miles down the road. That development with the streets named for dogs.”
“‘Down’?” she rhetorically pushed, and her shoulder touched mine.
“Ooh God,” I sighed, letting the words pour out. “I don’t know why he’s doing it. I’m sure we’ll find out.”
When we stopped talking, I listened to the crickets, forgetting again that I was cold.
My parents visited us on their way to France. A private French firm would send up the next load of retirees and temporary workers. My mother touched her frosted perm uncertainly; behind her right ear, the hair lay flat from how she’d slept in the airplane. Her hand knew something was wrong but couldn’t settle on the exact problem. This compounded her obvious anxiety. While my father was in the bathroom, I talked to her in the kitchen, standing beside her at the sink.
“I can tell you don’t want to do this.”
“Do what,” she said flatly, watching her hand tug on the tab to raise and lower the teabag in her mug. Typical, this. My mother always feigned, well, everything. Ignorant, she made out like she knew what was what; if she knew full well the state of affairs, she forced you to do all the work, and even then you might just make her lie to your face. I never understood what this was a defense against—unless it was against a son who always questioned her.
&
nbsp; “Come on. The moon? Just the trip to Europe is huge for you. What’s it really like up there? Have you talked to anyone?”
“A woman spoke to my book club last month.”
“A woman,” I said.
“A woman who’d visited recently. I wish you’d heard her.”
“It’s not the same as living there.”
She carried her mug to the counter beside the trash and went through her ritual of winding the thread around the teabag, pressing it between her thumb and the tab and, when the last drops were squeezed into the mug, letting the bag plummet into the receptacle. She’d already placed on the counter two packs of artificial sweetener. These she tore open and emptied into the mug. There lay the spoon as well; my mother always knew—or controlled— the sequence of events.
“This is a huge risk,” I said.
“It’s very safe.” She stirred, the spoon ringing inside the mug.
“I should explain,” said my father from behind me, and I turned to see him looking thoughtful and sheepish, his eyes reluctantly meeting mine. “Let’s sit and talk.” Then he left the room to lead me out, as if it were his own house and he knew where best to discuss such things.
He’d only gone into the next room to sit at the broad dining table, his back to one window. He spread his pale arms out and swept the dark surface as I took the chair opposite him. Facing downward, he said, “When I was little, I had a book called You Will Go to the Moon”
Knowing I was interrupting—he’d not paused—I asked, “So that’s why you’re going?”
He didn’t lift his head but looked at me over his eyeglasses. It was nearly a glare. “Just let me talk. The book came out before Apollo’d even reached the moon, but it had these drawings of this boy taking a rocket to the space station, going up to the moon base. Everything was happening so fast in America it seemed like pretty soon the moon would be like another vacation spot.
“I never got over the disappointment that we couldn’t just pop up to the moon. I had this book when I was five or six, you know, so it really made an impression on me. It’s certainly part of why I studied math. I loved the picture on the cover. The moon looked so close, almost pasted on top of the sky, and you could sort of feel the ridges on the craters.” Now he did pause.
“Okay,” I said, to say something. I heard Cyndi come in from the garden with the girls and start talking with my mother. “You can’t just pop up, though. And you can’t just pop back down. And . . . you’re not young.”
“You have this habit,” said my father, “of telling people things they already know.”
I’d heard the criticism before, so I kept my momentum. “I know those new rockets don’t hit you with the same G-force, but, still, it’s not like you’re ready to set off on some interstellar excursion. Dad, you and Mom never even traveled much.”
“And we should have. That’s both our faults.”
“I don’t think she wants to go,” I said with my mouth half shut.
A shrug seemed his only available reply, but then he thought again. “Like you said, we’re old. There’s nothing after this. We’d have to live a lot longer to have time for regret.”
“You can regret something before you’ve even done it.”
He sat up and looked at me like I wasn’t his son, like I was a man who might, amazingly, tell him something he hadn’t heard before—though that wasn’t what I’d done. He’d already thought of all this.
“The house is too much for us,” he said, his palms an inch above the table, settling the matter. “A retirement village on the moon. It’s a little different.”
“What kind of people would do this?”
He laughed. “You’re looking at one.” He slapped down his hands and was finished.
It would be six months before I could arrange my own journey, taking time off from the accounting firm, scheduling myself on a flight. I had no childhood desire to leave Earth, nor to explore much of anything—I had not climbed mountains, taken a pilgrimage to one of humanity’s ancient places, nor swum above the vanishing coral reefs. Still, I had to see my parents.
Some nights, I sat on the living room floor, my back against the leather chair where Cyndi sat, and flipped through various brochures. So many firms headed up there—over there. I read their literature, studied the photos they chose. Always they showed Earthrise, the photo that troubled me most, though back then I couldn’t separate my discomfort with that photo from my unease about the whole affair.
Serious research about their living conditions I avoided. I read the headlines of articles that flashed on my console or appeared in the newspaper. To our friends, to my colleagues, I didn’t mention my parents’ present situation, as if I were expecting something about it to change, or as if it had not actually happened.
I noticed the moon more, its phases, how high it rode, how often it hovered in the daylight—this last unsettling because I felt the moon moving not through space but through sunlight, all its surface delineation lost, smothered in the brightness. When the moon rose red, did my parents see their own landscape transformed? No, that was a trick of the atmosphere. And what of Earth? Did it ever shine with a hue that startled you? Did it sometimes appear surprisingly large? But again, no: the airless moon would always grant observers the same sky, though the Earth would, of course, pass through its own phases of light and dark, be more or less clouded, become black against the sun.
Weightlessness disagreed with me, as evidently it does with many people. My bones ached, I vomited, my brain felt lopsided in my skull. I couldn’t imagine my parents enduring this. Two days out from Earth, when purportedly your system begins to make accommodations, I had trouble keeping down the food—something in the air deprived it of flavor—and even the protein bars and drinks wouldn’t settle properly. I slept a lot, which is recommended; in fact, the well stocked drug dispensary tacitly encouraged it. My dreams were . . . not exactly weightless, but somehow unlike even the usual disjointed narrative of dreams, so I imagined, lifting fuzzily from a nap, that I’d swapped dreams with another passenger. Pretty much everyone appeared addled; no one talked much.
One older couple slept an entire day. When an attendant went to wake them, the woman came around, but the man, who looked like someone acting out sleep—head tilted back, lips parted, the glint of moisture in the corner of his mouth—had died. The wife lapsed again into dreams; she dozed unaware as the staff removed his body rearward.
I felt the black spaces surrounding us become more empty, more silent. The moon was not another place like another town. You had to cross too much emptiness to get there, so it was, itself, a part of the emptiness. I felt that then and feel it now, even in daytime, when the moon seems to lie embedded in brightness. When that old man died out there, I felt more sure than ever that my parents had . . . transgressed. That was the word that came to me. Not just a bad mistake, but a crossing over to a place where your merely being there was a violation.
I gave in to the drug-induced sleep that met me, vaguely dreading its dark gulf yet welcoming relief from my thoughts.
After the arrival, I couldn’t get my footing. In the corridor of the reception bay, with its mellow, shifting lights that formed moving patterns on the wall, my legs swam and wouldn’t walk. The colors on the walls—and the very shape of the walls, curving widely outward—were meant to relax you. The brochures explained this. Psychologists and behavioral specialists had learned how to ease you into life on the moon. From the occasional windows, you saw gray below and black sky above. That stark view altered the optic nerve, over time, but also made you anxious. Something to do with our evolution. I don’t remember what the wall shape was about.
My father had sent a radio message back an hour after they’d landed: “Amazing! I’ve gone to the moon! Another man on the flight read the same book as a kid! Lots of nice people greeted us. Don’t worry.” Both their names were affixed, but I heard my father’s hearty hello. After my own landing, I didn’t feel like speaking to any
one, not even two hours later. I asked an attendant to send a message to my family—on the moon and on Earth—just to let them know I’d arrived intact. Maybe my father had felt equally awful but managed to fake it. Perhaps he’d known I needed to be reassured; or he’d been reassuring himself; or rubbing it in my face. My parents never acted with single motives.
The attendants gave most of us boots and thin jackets fitted with weights. That helped. Some people waved them off. They’d come before and were accustomed, or they wanted the full experience. I wanted to go home.
I looked for her, but missed seeing the woman whose husband had died. What would she do now?
A series of walkways and slow-moving trams took me past housing “villages,” vast enclosed farms, office complexes and scientific labs until I reached Serenity Sea, my parents’ new home. A lot of work was in progress, with suites being constructed and, I saw through the windows, new units being added on. The crews laboring outdoors wore trimmer versions of what the old Apollo astronauts had worn. I wondered if my father’s book’s vision of the future had included these images, the people of Earth building without pause for a life far from home.
Their rooms were nice. I stood in the corridor, its walls running with watery colors, and looked past my mother rather than into her face; I saw furniture like we had on Earth, furniture like any furniture, not moon furniture, whatever I’d imagined that to be.
“It’s like a regular apartment,” I said.
My mother was looking up at me, and when I finally looked down, she said, “It was okay that we didn’t meet you, wasn’t it?”
“I told you not to. I needed time to get my moon legs, anyway.”
“Okay.”
I bent to embrace her. She felt fragile, but heavier than I expected. When she shuffled into the room, I realized why: she still wore the weighted materials they gave newcomers. “Your father’s at the gym. Let me buzz him.”
While she did that I wandered the rooms. I didn’t wake up to the suitcase in my hand until I realized what was missing from the place: everything familiar. I let the bag settle gradually beside an overstuffed chair. Deciding where to sit froze me.
