Chapter 1.

It’s always something with Bulialdus or unimaginable overlapping of unlucky coincidences.

​

        Gigantic glowing letters hanging in the empty moon terminal lobby proudly announced, “Welcome to Luna Hermosa.” A building ventilation exhaled. An electric hum grew with the annoying clicking paired with the abnormally loud sound of fans coming from inside walls and the ceiling. The system was automatically running one of the multiple tests. Eventually, when it switches to a regular regimen, it will be completely silent so as not to disturb future guests of the first tourist destination in space.

        A massive base on the slope of the lunar crater Bullialdus cascaded down in three festively decorated sectors—Santorini, Biarritz, and Venice. Familiar to scientific personnel as the labyrinth of laboratories, testing facilities, and research centers, the station was turned into the Las Vegas-style, extremely overpriced oasis of entertainment—casinos, shops, concert halls, circus arenas, stands with bottomless booze, advertisement tabloids, mesmerizing low-gravity fountains, and even an ice rink and a snow resort waited for their future guests. To amuse visitors from the moment of arrival, the welcome area was placed on the highest point, so the newcomers' first impression would be influenced by the scenic ride from the spaceport at the bottom level to the top of the hill inside the transparent tunnel.

        Sonya liked it way more when it was the temple of knowledge and a monument to the space development progress. Nevertheless, she clearly understood that the structure was not only outdated but also did not have enough room for new ambitious projects. If equipment upgrade was somehow achievable, the available area was restricted by the crater peak on one side and the underground cavity on the other side. The deeply located cave was discovered long after the construction began, and it was too late to relocate the site; the enterprise had already consumed more resources than every involved party anticipated.  Moreover, due to political tensions of the past, once it had become a symbol of the achievements of the international effort to settle the Moon, neither side would dare to draw public attention to the fatal planning error.

        A ventilation system, the mechanical lungs of the Bulialdus resort, exhaled, followed by humming and clicking. Automated tests and adjustments were running in the final phase for the last 16 hours, driving Sonya absolutely nuts. When she tried to sleep during the dedicated timeframe, the station’s “breathing” disturbed her even while wearing earplugs, causing overly vivid nightmares.

        In her dream she got lost in the newly remodeled endless corridors of the moon resort. Knowing the station better than most personnel, she was sure that the next turn led to the desired exit but it only took her further into the lunar maze. She followed deeper and deeper, away from the surface, until she walked into what seemed to be a ballroom, in the middle of which, no less than ten stories high, a spongy human lung was impaled on a metal rod like a fly on a needle, connected with a string of wires and ventilation shafts to the red, wet, slimy walls. It began to inhale with the nasty grinding and squelching, quickly growing out of proportion and the blood started pouring from the stitches where metal elements were connected to the porous flesh.

        Sonya woke up even more tired than before, feeling like Alice, who'd fallen down the rabbit hole. In addition to physical exhaustion, an already unpleasant state was compounded by an unusual anxiety and restlessness. For a second the current project appeared in her mind as pointless, and the girl imagined herself back on Earth, getting ready for a well-deserved vacation. But it was only an awkward echo of her nightmare, and, perfectly aware of the importance of the science center relocation, she pushed the heavy thought away. Sonya placed her hand on the side of the bed where the other person was supposed to be. It was empty. The girl stood up, collected her long chic blond hair in a bun, and put on the work jumpsuit. The most luxurious, palace-styled room that she picked to mark such an experience off the list didn’t help her mood at all. When the place officially opens, this area will be extraordinarily overpriced, far outside her comfortable range but while being one of the few people working during the final stage of the moon base relocation, she had unlimited free access to all the amenities. The girl fixed the bed and walked into the bathroom to wash her face with the cold water. After inspecting her reflection in the mirror for a few seconds, she spotted with indignation a barely noticeable wrinkle on the forehead.

        “Only a couple more days of this nonsense before a real vacation on the real coast of the real Earth ocean… with Ben,” she said out loud. The young, lively face in the reflection responded with a friendly smile. The thought that her dear Ben dropped everything and agreed to accompany her on this trip after a last-minute invitation brightened her big blue eyes with a playful spark. The man had nothing to do with her scientific moon involvement but as an instructor of the US Space Force special ops, he was cleared for practically any space travel at any given moment.

        Refreshed, Sonya left the spacious number and aimed for the lobby, strategically located on the top of the hill. They used it as a meeting point. While walking to the destination, she decided to check on work progress and updates. Perfectly knowing the route and walking on “autopilot,” she raised her hand in the air in the manner of holding a clipboard. A bean-sized mechanism inside of a transparent bracelet automatically positioned itself accordingly, generating a projection above the girl’s palm. From Sonya’s angle of view it looked as if there was a 15-inch screen floating above her fingertips. She tapped and pinched the air, and the projected display got filled with numbers, graphs, and percentage bars. Several messages in red made her stop walking. The girl frowned. She carefully went through every notification, hoping none of those would require her immediate appearance at the spaceport. Being a specialist in non-oxygen fuels, her direct responsibility was to organize and manage the relocation of the fuel reserves from Bulialdus to the new base. They were a day behind schedule for reasons beyond her control but related to her field of ​​expertise.

        Sonya glanced in the direction of the spaceport at the foot of the hill. Two rockets were standing vertically. A colossal fuel tanker that arrived with a 20-hour delay and the short-range rocket that Sonya proudly flew from Earth's orbit to the moon, not as a passenger but as a pilot.

        Her attention returned to the projection. A new blinking message in red appeared on the screen to unpleasantly surprise the girl. It indicated that the fuel tanker was still attached to the Bulialdus's reservoir. The ship was supposed to be disconnected several hours ago. Before heading off to rest, she initiated a system check and left instructions for the port automata. Such a task was so basic and foolproof that it should have never caused any trouble. The girl reluctantly realized that this one time it actually caused trouble and that she needed to deal with the issue. However, if it was an emergency, they’d call her no matter what, so 15 minutes to grab a coffee and say “Hi” to Ben won’t change much.

        The ventilation spontaneously produced a noise much louder than before, nearly making her jump. With the wave of the hand, the projection disappeared, and Sonya continued her way towards the lobby. An uneasy feeling from the dream in which she got lost in the lunar corridors returned. While she was strolling in the pleasantly low lunar gravity, Grandpa Nick came to her mind. She believed that the old man would be excited to see her getting the license to navigate a rocket to the moon; however, his reaction was the opposite, stating that she already has enough on her shoulders managing fuel reserve transfer, and there is no need to add piloting as well.

        The old astronaut dedicated his life to space development and planned to retire when the Bulialdus relocation was over with. The night before the takeoff, they gathered in the living room of his house in Cocoa Beach with the view of Cape Canaveral proudly towering over the coast and had a conversation that unexpectedly went intense and heavy:

​

​*

        “I have good news, everybody,” Sonya announced, willing to surprise and impress Grandpa Nick, who wasn’t aware of her entering a piloting school. “I’ve finished the basic academy training for short-distance navigation, and I’ll be flying our rocket from the orbit to the moon and back. I’ve made corresponding requests and arrangements.”

        Her mother, Odessa, followed Nick Colt’s steps in career choice, first becoming his assistant and later leading the mission to the moon of Jupiter, Europa. The lady clasped her hands together with the smile of excitement no less than when Sonya started walking. Mother and daughter conspired to not let Grandpa Nick know about the training ahead of time. The tall, confident, blossoming woman from whom Sonya inherited her chic hair also believed that the rigid pioneer of cosmos will be excited about his beloved granddaughter's achievement.

        Nick Colt, the man who walked the surfaces of the Moon and Mars long before mass settlement began, had kind, curious eyes with the constant presence of a deep thought process. His perfectly trimmed mid-length beard was completely white. A gray and blue jumpsuit highlighted his strong, muscular, lean body, not typical for men of his respectable age, even in the space industry. The man cleared his throat with an expression of noticeable indignation and turned away to the window. After a short pause, Nick glanced over his shoulder at Ben and asked, “Are you involved in this? ”

        Ben Armstrong, Sonya's fiancé and a US Space Force instructor, having a profound respect for the legendary astronaut, answered simply and to the point, like he was reporting to the senior in rank: “No, sir! I had no idea that she didn’t tell you.”

       Sonya gave her future husband a furious look but couldn’t blame the guy for his position and immediately returned her attention to Grandpa.

        The old spaceman took his time thoughtfully observing three rockets simultaneously ascending into the sky at different altitudes. Over the last half century, Cape Canaveral grew into a 10-mile-wide archipelago of rocket launch pads, becoming nothing less than the biggest and most advanced “floating” spaceport on Earth… and not without Nick Colt’s direct involvement. To mark its grand opening, the Space Program rewarded the fellow's merits with the luxurious house with the first-row view of the coast.  It had a personal underground connection to the scientific terminal of the John F. Kennedy Center that four of them will use the next morning. The pause dragged uncomfortably. Sonya and her mother exchanged a few quick glances in silence. Ben remained impenetrably calm. Finally, without taking his eyes off the spaceships, the old man said quietly, but everyone still heard, “It’s always something with Bulialdus,” and turned to the room.

        Sonya wanted to explain, but the old man raised his hand in the air, stopping her. He smoothed the beard and addressed the girl’s mother: “Odessa Taylor-Colt!” It was never a good sign when he used his daughter's first name paired with the combination of last names she took after marriage. A stranger wouldn't have noticed the difference in his tone, but both women knew the astronaut was terribly irritated. However, neither of them understood or guessed why.

        “Odessa Taylor-Colt,” he repeated, “if young Sonya, driven by sheer enthusiasm and inexperience, volunteered to add piloting to her already hefty duties, you are perfectly aware that such changes in planning are irresponsible, to say the least. On top of that, it could only have been done without me knowing about it if you acted on my behalf, which is evidently the case. Sonya also brought Ben, apparently to show how masterfully she navigates the rocket.”

        Nick glanced at the young man: “Nothing personal, Ben; I don’t doubt you for half a second. I just don’t like deviations from the carefully crafted plan, especially in such a rude manner, even if it’s the simple base relocation.”

        The US Space Force instructor, who conducted multiple operations, some of which were top secret, knew exactly what made the cosmos veteran lose his temper and slightly bowed his head in understanding. Mentally, the guy took Nick's side but didn't show it in any way, not wanting to find himself between a rock and a hard place. Sonya, however, guessed it and gave her future husband another glare.

         The spaceman was about to continue his speech when Odessa interrupted him. Pioneer’s daughter was one of the very few individuals in the solar system who could afford such an impudence. “But Dad,” she exclaimed, “what’s the big deal if it’s a ‘simple base relocation,’ as you mention? Sonya already passed the test, piloting to the moon and back with the top score. Loading and unloading are done by autolifts anyway; it’s not like we need to carry whatever equipment is left there by hand. Fuel reservoir routine is also a basic task that only requires overseeing and confirming readings; Sonya can handle it.”

        “I am not questioning Sonya’s capacity to ‘handle it,’” the old man slightly raised his voice. “Good job with the top score on your flight test, by the way,” he didn’t miss the opportunity to praise his granddaughter’s success and continued to address Odessa in a stern tone, “But we have a very narrow time window; each has their own share of work and starting to redistribute duties now, at the last second, in secrecy from me is a bad call.”

        Odessa began to lose her temper as well and parried, “But what’s so special about this time? I was with you when you founded Marstown; we built orbiters around Venus and Mercury, reached Jupiter, and established full-fledged bases on Europa and Titan. Now suddenly, you got worked up over a three-day gig moving a handful of equipment that can fit in a small rocket to the other side of the moon. And it seemed that there was no pilot assigned ahead of time anyway. How come when Nick Colt raises his finger mid-breakfast, the Space Command sends the list of the top candidates immediately, but you haven't picked one in two months? I checked; it was still marked as ‘pending.’ In the old-fashioned paper wall calendar in your room, you only wrote 'Wild Bill' in front of the date, like you're having a movie night or something."

        Much to Sonya's surprise, it was her dear Ben Armstrong of the US Space Force who reacted to the nickname. At the mention of ‘Wild Bill,’ he glanced at the old man sideways, then slowly turned to the window in the most unremarkable manner. It was only as the partner and future wife, as if through the skin, as if over that invisible connection between significant others, that the girl unmistakably understood that Ben knows exactly who the nickname belonged to and, considering the type of his involvement with the space industry, that it was a matter of notable importance. Her fiancé was no less familiar with the secrets of the US cosmos function than her grandpa. Sonya suddenly realized that even with how unremarkable and small the Bulialdus relocation project was kept in plans and conversations, there was much more to it than she and her mother anticipated when they decided to assign her as a pilot. The girl was ready to back up and apologize to Grandpa for such behavior and ask him to return things to how they were supposed to be, but Odessa took the matter personally. The astronaut’s unwillingness to allow Sonya to navigate only provoked the stubbornness of the proud mother...

        That evening went in a very strange way. The woman and Grandpa Nick had been arguing for a long time, which was highly unusual. Ben politely and patiently remained silent. Sonya was embarrassed that all the mess was the result of her rushed actions in an attempt to impress everybody. But right before she finally mustered enough courage to intervene with the protracted dispute, the old astronaut, pressured by his daughter, gave up: “All right! Okay,” he said with a confused smile, “Sonya can fly us to the Moon.” After another moment of awkward silence, he added, “You guys have some good rest and I’ll meet you at the orbit terminal when you arrive. I still have to take care of a few things.” Then he left and met them the next day in his usual impenetrably calm, friendly, and thoughtful state, like nothing ever happened. No one mentioned anything about it during the trip.

*

​

        With thoughts about that evening circulating in her head, Sonya entered the spacious lobby of the moon resort that smelled like a new car and wood. Ben was sitting on the sofa in the center of the hall and observed the lunar landscape through the enormous panoramic window. Excellent physical shape, a reasonable amount of muscles, a black polo t-shirt with the US flag above the left chest pocket, navy camouflage pants tucked into black leather lace-up boots, a burr buzz cut, a perfectly trimmed short beard, a strong jawline, and wise gray eyes gave the impression of unshakable confidence and strength.

        Earth was hanging in the middle of the black sky, reminding Sonya of home and the upcoming wedding and vacation. The girl didn’t make any noise, but Ben registered her presence anyway. He stood up and slightly bowed his head in greeting.

        “Hello, Sleeping Beauty!” he said. “Are you feeling better? In your sleep you were constantly tossing and turning and breathing heavily.”

        Sonya beamed and crossed the large hall in a few masterful low-gravity leaps to give Ben a hug and a kiss. Her big blue eyes shone with happiness. “Hello, B! I feel much better now. Apparently, there is an issue with the fuel tanker, so I need to rush to the port. Do you want something from the bar before I leave?”

        “Your mother was here just a minute ago and Nick has been down there by the rockets for the last three hours. Odessa left, saying it was nothing major and if they need your help, she’ll message you.”

        “Shish!” exclaimed Sonya. She frowned, causing a tiny wrinkle to appear on her forehead again. “They treat me like a baby!” The girl thought for a second and added, “I’m glad that I don’t need to run down there to “put out a fire”… but still.”

        Ben smoothed out her forehead with his two palms, looking in her shining eyes, “Because you are a baby, aren’t you?”

        Sonya moved away and lightly pushed him on the sofa, laughing as he softly landed on the cushion. “Silly...! Anyway! Something from the bar?”

        “No, I’m good. Thank you!”

        The girl walked to the self-service cafeteria. The big screen lit up as she approached, offering a variety of snacks and drink options, each matched by the obnoxious price tags. She snorted in indignation. “Unbelievable!” Sonya placed her hand on the scanner and prices disappeared. “I can’t believe someone is voluntarily going to pay a three-digit number for a cup of Joe from the machine.”

        Ben, who didn’t take his eyes off her, replied, “I agree that those prices are not for the faint of heart, but you have to keep in mind that it’s the first time ever people are offered resort-style stays in space. If for you and me it’s the work routine and we have to spend plenty of time outside of Earth, for everybody else who’s not involved with the industry, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Of course, the corporation wants to milk the most out of it before more destinations like this open and the free market pushes the prices down.”

        Sonya grabbed the tall steaming cup of black coffee from the dispenser, made a careful sip and quoted the line from the ‘Pulp Fiction,’ “This is some serious gourmet shit.” Sipped one more time and added, “I can make it better at home.”

        From under the floor came the sound resembling a flying-by mosquito if it was the size of an elephant. Buzzing drifted into the wall, then into the ceiling. The ventilation loudly exhaled, produced a series of clicks and went silent.

        “I have a cosmos-related question,” said Sonya, still looking at the ceiling where the noise came from.

        “You know the deal,” responded Ben, “If it overlaps with my work, I may not be able to answer because of certain agreements I signed but mostly for your safety. Also…,” the man pointed up.

        “Don’t worry about that.” Sonya raised her hand to bring up the projection from the wrist device. After a few taps and pinches, the display floating above her palm disappeared. “All done. No audio, video, thermal, or network signal recording is in progress.”

        Ben got noticeably entertained, “I didn’t know you could do that.”

        “Well, I can’t. Grandpa can. He gave me one of his access keys for these few days.”

       The man nodded.

        Sonya continued, “When we were at our house, during that awkward conversation, Mom brought up the writing in grandpa’s calendar, mentioning ‘Wild Bill.’ I wouldn’t even care if not for your reaction. You can hide it from anyone in the room but not from your wife. You know what that means or who that is, don’t you? If you can't answer, that's okay. I've learned my lesson about sensitive information from Nick.”

        “With an ability to read people like that, you should be an investigator, not the laboratory scrub!” Remarked Ben with a smile. “I can answer that… but I also will have a question myself.”

        “Huh?” Sonya raised her eyebrows in surprise. “I mean… Sure… It's just that what can I possibly know about the industry that you don’t?”

        Ben looked at the girl for a few seconds without a change in facial expression or blinking. Sonya has learned that he was in the middle of deep thought, even though nobody else would interpret it that way.

        “Wild Bill is not a secret to anyone who’s been in the Space Force for a while. The man became some sort of an urban legend that takes its origin in the golden era of cosmos pioneering, before full-scale expansion. He should be at least Nick’s age, if not older. The stories about his service aren’t as popular anymore but there was a time when they became so big that it was impossible to tell the truth from fiction. He turned into some sort of space cowboy that astronauts' kids would dress up as for Halloween, along with Captain America and Ironman. Nevertheless, the man is real and there are records about him in the classified archive. It is fair to say that the command didn’t bother or didn’t want to store much data about the fellow, which is not that atypical for someone who works on projects of top security. But at some point all mentionings of him suddenly stop. That usually happens when the person dies, ends the involvement with the organization, or, on the opposite, goes off the radar completely to remain a “nonexistent” ghost. There are plenty of agents and pilots around the Solar System who don’t have any trackable connection to an institution. I can’t, of course, disclose how we hire, train, or communicate with them. The operation of the network is an impressive mechanism built on trust and honor. Those people don’t receive trophies, take places on pedestals, or have their names in the record books. Some of them are the most average Joes and Janes—going to church on Sunday, having breakfast with their loud kids in a cafe on the corner, clocking in to their jobs on Monday morning, and meeting with friends for dinner to talk about unimportant stuff. There is also the other type—they’re not anyone’s neighbors, they don’t have fingerprints in the database, their faces are unknown even to the command, and they watch from the shadows and move around the solar system in undetectable spacecraft. So speaking of “Wild Bill,” if he's still around...—as your mom mentioned, the moment Nick Colt raises his finger, the Command runs wagging its tail, rushing to send the best candidates, so it is not impossible that your grandpa didn’t pick any of them because he wanted to meet with his old pal without drawing any attention to it and didn’t want anyone outside the family to be around.”

        The discovered information refreshed the conversation from the night before the flight in the girl's memory and brought uneasy feelings from the dream where she got lost, “Now it all makes sense why Granda didn’t want me on the flight deck. Damn it, Ben, why haven’t you said anything?”

        The man spread his hands. “A few reasons: First—who am I to interrupt Nick Colt? Of course I would if it was about your safety but I doubt it was. Second—this is only my hypothesis, a blind guess. Third—it’s your gramps we are talking about; not only wouldn't he allow a hair to fall off his precious granddaughter's head but also if there was anything to worry about, with a snap of his fingers, my guys from the force squad would show up to turn the moon inside out.”

        “Fair enough!” Sonya's anxiety eased and her mood improved. “What did you want to ask?”

        “Now that you’ve finished the basic-level short-distance civil piloting course, how often do you have to take the recertification?”

        “What?” The girl didn’t realize at first what Ben was talking about. “Oh yeah. It’s every half year—vision, physical, coordination, reaction, and level 1 flight precision obstacle course. Why?”

        “You do realize that Nick is one of the people who implemented those standards, don’t you?”

        “Yes, of course!” Sonya still couldn’t grasp where Ben was going with this.

        “How was your level one test? Was it easy?”

        “No, not really. I can’t say that I had a hard time passing it, but I put in above-average effort to keep myself in shape. I have to admit—overloads and maneuvering were exhausting.”

        “And that’s basic civil piloting. Every next level increases complexity and physical demands exponentially. For long-rangers and starfighters, the bar is raised to absurdity. It is not only that you are required to navigate clear-mindedly at the peak of humanly possible performance but it is also that 99.9 percent of people simply wouldn’t survive in the required overloads. I know guys half Nick’s age that can’t pass it.”

        “What are you saying, Ben? Did Grandpa insist on setting examination requirements too high? But it kind of makes sense considering the responsibility and price tag of those types of rockets and jets.”

        The ventilation buzzed and exhaled. It repeated 3 times in a row. Then something was adjusting with the sound, like if there were hundreds of metal spiders walking on top of the hard surface, making the emptiness of the lobby feel disturbing and unpleasant. Sonya waited till the silence was restored, patiently sipping her coffee under the man’s gaze when she finally realized, “Wait! Are you telling me that Grandpa takes those retests as well?”

        “Yes. His name doesn’t appear in the publicly available flight logs but I know he does from the collaboration between the Space Force and ship manufacturers. Unlike civilian orbital stations, our hangars have top security due to the technologies kept there. Even Nick Colt can’t just show up to one and fly out without proper clearance.”

        “Interesting!” Sonya never thought of it this way before. For her it was always a part of the routine—just Grandpa going to work and dealing with the stuff she can’t wrap her head around. “You’re right, Ben!” the girl replied. “I think he flies solo on at least half of his trips.”

        “Therefore, my question is, how does he do it? The man is older than the modern Space Program, but his physical and mental shape is on the level of the USS Force top guns. It can’t be achieved just by eating steaks and exercising. If I didn’t know him personally, I would not believe it was possible. The same thing probably applies to Wild Bill, because the fellow can’t be any younger than Nick. And there are more pioneers out there who still work."

        The girl looked utterly confused, “I, honestly, have no idea, Ben! But since you’ve mentioned it, I’m curious as well. We should ask Mom; she spent more time around him than anyone else. You think it's some sort of modification that we don’t know of?” The girl's mood suddenly improved. She smiled broadly and imitated the voice from the commercial of the Bulialdus resort that played on radio and TV multiple times a day, “Is your grandpa not even your grandpa anymore? Does he act like an awesome robot from the future with the metal carcass on the inside and real skin on the outside? You should visit a spa on Bulialdus.”

        Ben remained calm and concentrated, “No, it can’t be a modification because it disqualifies you from flying on any performance spacecraft. Having metal, plastic, or even modern alternatives inside your body will ruin you in the extensive overloads. And you need to have it registered too. When you go through the check at any space terminal, they can detect it.”

        “Ah, don’t be so serious, Ben. Let’s think about it later.” Thoughts of the upcoming wedding crowded out all others. Sonya walked towards the gigantic panoramic window, stopped under the silver glowing sign saying “Welcome to Luna Hermosa,” and looked outside. She almost felt nostalgic about the research facility turned into a tourist attraction. When Sonya was a high school kid, greedily devouring books on astronomy, celestial mechanics, and, just for fun, romantic and detective novels of classic authors from the 19th century, cosmos travel was something only available for the highest level of science and military personnel. And now, less than a decade later—space tourism! Imitating the voice from the TV ads, she quoted, "The first resort on the Moon welcomes you! Experience a low-gravity wave pool, ski down the slopes of Bullialdus, check out a one-of-a-kind circus air show, enjoy the view of the night sky unobstructed by the atmosphere, and taste your favorite food and drinks crafted by our lunar chefs in three uniquely themed sectors: Glamorous Santorini, Luxurious Biarritz, and Mysterious Venice, located on the mesmerizing coastline of Mare Nubium! Your lunar adventure awaits!”

        While observing the waterless, dead, every-shade-of-gray, rock bottom of Mare Nubium, she continued in her regular voice, “Sounds like they used every word that will attract potential visitors with that kind of money. Gets them excited like a dog, raising ears and wagging tail hearing “walk” or "treat." Luxurious, mysterious, mesmerizing coastline; Mare Nubium in Latin means Sea of Clouds. Imagine the faces of those excited visitors when they don’t see clouds... or sea.”

        Sonya paused and glanced at the sky, gathering thoughts together. Earth rested in the middle of the black abyss. Home sweet home, blue globe, half day-half night, harboring the only known life in the Milky Way galaxy.​

        “Unobstructed by the atmosphere,” said Sonya, “what kind of line is that? In fact, they are planning to have visitors during the moon days only, when visibility is not that "stellar." And what is the deal with naming sectors after actual cities and then decorating them as close to the original as possible?“

       Ben responded in a soft voice “I know you are not a fan of Las Vegas, but it works perfectly fine there. You have hotels like New York, Paris, Venice, and even Caesars Palace if you wish. It’s just that people don’t usually go there to get acquainted with cultural influence and historical value; rather, they take pictures, gamble, get buzzed, and have fun.”

        Sonya shrugged, "I guess you are right. Not my cup of tea. But hey, one more Venice in the solar system won't hurt." She smiled, made a silly, childish face, and continued in a radio ad voice, mocking the commercial: "You have been to Venice in California, haven’t you? Venice in Las Vegas? Venice in Louisiana? Even Venice, Italy? And you thought you'd run out of places called Venice to visit? We have excellent news: Venice on the Moon is open for business. A regular margarita is called a Lunarita to make you feel special when bragging about it back at home. Station corridors are decorated with cheap plastic imitations of the familiar environment. And even if a single drink costs like a small car, because the exact same ingredients to make the exact same cocktails need to be imported from 238 thousand miles away—you deserve it—treat yourself! Leave worries on Earth and your money... on the Moon.” For a moment she stood in silence, observing the lunar landscape.

        “So where is everybody?” asked Ben, "Isn't it supposed to be crazy busy before the grand opening? Final preparations, checking, inventory… Other than the rocket crew and laboratory people loading equipment on the ship, it’s a ghost town. I know it’s your grandpa's work of a lifetime, and your mom is his number one assistant and I'm happy to spend time with your family, but I’d rather do it over there,” he pointed in the direction of the Earth, hanging in the black sky, in the center of the enormous window. 

        At this moment, Sonya came to the realization that being so occupied with the preparation of the moon laboratory relocation, she didn't share many updates with her dear Ben—always there when she needed him, supportive, patient, not asking many questions. He adjusted his schedule on short notice to go on this trip when she asked for company.

        Visits to the moon were not something extraordinary for Sonya but this time was special. It was the first time she navigated the rocket herself. As a young specialist in the field of non-oxygen fuels, she gained a spot in a Fusion Driven Rockets Development Program and spent a few months at a time in the lunar station laboratories, never before, however, worrying about returning back to Earth. But at this moment her eyes seemed to get glued to the only bright decoration of the black sky—so distant but so missed, the blue home that blooms with life, filled with the murmur of water and rustling of leaves, soothing coffee aroma from the bakery on the corner and laughter of kids running around at the playground; the east coast that welcomes sunrises, where the day by the beach starts with the gentle touch of the leisurely appearing celestial giant, prepared to melt away the darkness of the night and give a warm hug to the cooled yearning planet; and a sunset on the west coast, where, after a long day of traveling above the heads of God's bustling creations, the Solar Chariot fearlessly submerges into the mysterious depth of the ocean; where the perfect harmony of billions of imperfect thoughts knits into the only known life in the universe; and the misinterpreted concept of time that people are always short on while disregarding the eternity of simplest interactions and beauty of the miracle of life they’re gifted with.

        Sonya caught herself being hypnotized by the vision and having a hard time restoring consciousness. It felt as if in a split second her soul escaped her body, traveled back to Earth, and didn’t want to return to the moon.  Her palms got sweaty, her heart was beating faster, and her breathing was shallow and short. She looked at the cup of coffee in her hand—it was shaking and almost spilling. The girl’s eyes opened wide, and the cold wave of fear squeezed her heart because the terrifying guess came to her mind—a fleeting clouding of consciousness paired with surges of Earth nostalgia and sharp momentary deviations from healthy astronauts' body functioning, which she had never experienced in her life before, were too similar to symptoms of long-ago extinguished space sickness, also known as “uprooting” (reference to the first book).

        “It’s impossible!” she thought, while the spasm was quickly subsiding. “Uprooting was a ridiculous but no less dangerous short-term mental distress accompanied by outbursts of violent behavior of people who traveled to space completely unprepared during the old times of rushed cosmos development. I can’t be uprooting! Not only have I spent half of my life outside of Earth, but there is Nick Colt’s, the most legendary spaceman’s, blood in my veins. Impossible! And what about Ben? How would he react if I were to collapse in seizures and bouts of uncontrollable aggression? It’s probably just stress and weariness. I should have listened to Grandpa and just stuck to my assigned duties. Adding piloting after all wasn’t the right call… But put yourself together, Sonya! You’ll be just fine. Everyone is here: Grandpa, Mom, and Ben… It will be fine…”

         The girl’s calm breathing and normal heart rate were restored. The cup of coffee in hand stopped shaking. She glanced at Ben. He was sitting motionless and observed her with interest. A spontaneous, bizarre question came to Sonya’s mind, and she voiced it out, assuming that it would be within the man’s expertise, as he was an elite member of the US Space Force: “Do people instantly freeze to death if put out in a cosmos vacuum without the proper suit?”

        “No!” was Ben’s immediate answer, as if he was waiting for this question. He was about to continue talking when the ventilation produced a series of loud pops, followed by a few seconds of annoying high whistling similar to a boiling kettle. Ben looked disapprovingly in the direction of the source of noise and resumed, “Even though death in a vacuum is relatively fast, it’s unpleasant and a cold is not the reason. First, a person loses consciousness in 10-15 seconds due to hypoxia, when the brain is starved of oxygen. Then the difference in pressure causes ebullism—boiling of bodily fluids that leads to organ failure and death in about 90 seconds. Even after that, with the lack of air, there is no rapid cooling and inside ice formation; it’s a publicly digestible and understandable misrepresentation. Water escapes as vapor and, even in the shade, the body becomes a freeze-dried, crunchy mummy but never an ice statue.”

        The following question escaped Sonya’s lips against her will: “Does the Space Force prepare people for open vacuum during training? ”

        “Of course! Navy SEALs deal with water; we deal with space, and we constantly need to keep it in mind and use it to our advantage if needed. Not that long ago the scientists had a breakthrough and came up with an injection that can prolong consciousness for another 15 to 25 seconds and prevent blood from boiling for another minute. It is costly, but special ops and agents already have it,” he tapped a barely noticeable pocket on his thigh to indicate that he was in possession of one. “Our intelligence says that other countries are trying hard to develop something similar without success, and we are not in a rush to share it with them.”

        “But when would you need to use it? ”

        “This injection isn’t a cold syrup and causes damage as well, so it would be used as a final resort, which usually would mean that there was a failure in planning or things went wrong. Let’s say if I were cornered and outnumbered, I’d look for a way to depressurize the section, probably blow out the viewport, and having at least 15 more seconds of consciousness over an enemy would be a crucial tactical advantage.”

        Boiling of bodily fluids, immediate organ failure, freeze-drying, mummification—terrible ways to die. The imagery of her future husband being “cornered and outnumbered” by enemies in a space vacuum without a spacesuit made her sick and regret following this line of questions. It was always evident to Sonya that the US Space Force operations weren’t a “flower delivery,” but the pictures in her mind became too disturbing.

        Ben, however, remained impenetrably calm, looking at her with a smile in his eyes, with the same lively warmth that captivated Sonya from their first meeting at Cape Canaveral Kennedy Space Center. For a split second her mind traveled back to that moment.

​

*

        She arrived late to meet Grandpa and Mom, who were returning after a long time away, establishing a base on Europa, a moon of Jupiter. While running across the terminal, she tried to outmaneuver the moving crowd but miscalculated her efforts, tripped over, and was about to slam on the floor, but before hitting the ground, gentle yet strong hands caught her and put her back on her feet in one easy move. While fixing disheveled, rich, long blond hair, she met the eyes of the tall, broad-shouldered man in the perfectly ironed, crispy US Space Force uniform and froze like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car.

       The man slightly bowed his head and introduced himself: “Ben Armstrong.”

        As if enchanted, Sonya, not knowing why, blurted out, “Nick Colt? ” and blushed.

        The tall man squinted slightly and replied in a soft voice, “Doubt that. Nick Colt’s rocket landed a few minutes ago, but he hasn’t left it yet, and I’m heading to his press conference.”

        The girl blushed even more and replied, “What...? No… Yes… I mean… Sorry… I’m going to see Nick Colt too! ” Thoughts started to return to coherent shape: “Sonya! Sonya Taylor-Colt! I’m sorry, need to run; I’m trying to catch Nick before the conference.” She was already rushing to return to her route but slowed down for a moment and, for whatever reason, added with an awkward smile, "But I'll be at the press conference as well." Already moving away, she heard, “I’ll find you there, Sonya Taylor-Colt.” 

        Evidently, he did.

*

​

        The cozy flow of exciting memories in the girl’s head had been violently interrupted by the buzzing of ventilation paired with a nasty squeal and low-frequency hum simultaneously, as if a crying animal were stuck in the metal pipe. Knowing that it was not normal, more likely completely wrong, Sonya was about to share her concern with Ben when the bracelet produced a vibration and squeezed her wrist, indicating incoming communication, and began glowing red. Reluctantly, waiting for no good news, she raised her hand to bring up the projection. The warning from earlier stating that the fuel tanker was still connected to the Bulialdus's reservoir reappeared. A second later, the emergency alarm rang. The whole display started blinking in yellow and red, alternately showing ominous messages: “failure disconnecting the fuel line,” “engaging fire extinguishing protocols,” and “evacuate immediately.”

        Sonya’s heart dropped, cold shivers went down her spine and hands started shaking. A nearly full cup of coffee slid out of her fingers, slowly traveling down in the low lunar gravity. On the projection in front of her, alerts and warnings started to pop up, several on top of one another every second. The floor jerked and a flash from outside illuminated the room and Ben, who was looking at the projection above his palm while still sitting on the sofa. Sonya’s face twisted in the grimace of horror and panic. She looked through the gigantic panoramic window in the direction of the space sport. Two rockets, the small one that she piloted and the fuel tanker, were swaying but remained standing vertically. The first explosion happened at the bottom level of the tanker. One of the supporting claws of the tall ship compensated for most of the impact, shattered, and hung on the hull as if a severed arm had gone limp but was refusing to loosen its grip. Sonya grabbed her head, not believing in what she was looking at. She opened and closed her mouth silently, unable to produce a word and not understanding how to react.

        The next development erased the feeling of reality further because she clearly heard the sound of the heavy rain pouring on the window, which was… impossible—there was no water, clouds, atmosphere... or gravitational pull to produce it, even if all other ingredients were present. In addition, the gigantic, one-of-a-kind glass was thick enough to stop the cannon shot and in order to hear the outside sound, it should have been raining stones. The girl made a few steps with cottony, barely cooperating feet towards the transparent wall, bringing her face so close to the surface that she almost touched it with the tip of her nose. Those big, blue, wide-open eyes in the reflection looked at her from the barely recognizable bloodless face. Sonya tried hard to identify the origin of the rain sound when the area under the tanker got filled with the fire. It was moving and growing as if the flame-breathing monstrosity was melting its way out from under the rocket.

        Tears burst out of Sonya’s eyes; as a specialist in non-oxygen fuels, she was obligated to remember even in her sleep NASA’s document "HYPERGOLIC PROPELLANTS: THE HANDLING HAZARDS AND LESSONS LEARNED FROM USE," provided by the Fluids Division of Kennedy Space Center. The first sentence of the introduction stated, “Hypergolic fluids are toxic liquids that react spontaneously and violently when they contact each other,” and the disaster unfolding in front of her was only possible due to an unimaginable chain of system failures, which produced the “CONTACT EACH OTHER” scenario. It seemed that time stopped. The girl waited, unable to move or look away from two rockets at the foot of the hill of the crater. She attempted to convince herself that the fire will start to calm down at any moment now. Perhaps the spill prevention and fire extinguishing procedures, automatically activated after the emergency signal, were enough to stop further ruination. Perhaps Grandpa and Mom were there to take care of the issue…

        Sonya gasped and sharply pushed her face to the glass with force, attempting to see more details. A scream was about to come out, but it stuck in her throat. The next thought pierced her mind like a red-hot rod, submerging her in agonizing pain so realistic as if every millimeter of her body was bitten by a fire ant: “WERE GRANDPA AND MOM THERE...?”

        A ventilation, a metallic lung of the station, as if executing some sick evil prank, inhaled and produced a terrifying noise resembling a series of mad, echoing, barking laughters, spread and amplified by the hollow shafts behind walls and ceiling.

         Sonya helplessly collapsed to her knees, pounded by the unbearable weight of yet another realization—the ventilation testing had gone wrong and was still running, conflicting with emergency protocols. One doesn’t need to be a top-level scientist to know that the fire extinguishing algorithms on space stations would seal the intermediate sections to prevent the delivery of the oxygen to the site, as it will aggravate the ignition… The ventilation stuck in the test mode, however, will do exactly the opposite!!!

        The floor jerked for the second time. In front of the girl's eyes, the small rocket that she piloted turned into a pillar of fire. The bottom part, under the supporting claws, exploded, sending metal chunks in all directions. The top section, pushed away from the ground, traveled for a few seconds in one piece, slowly rotating, then burst into the tiniest shards as well.

        “...REACT SPONTANEOUSLY AND VIOLENTLY…” The rocket fuel doesn’t need oxygen for the reaction; instead, it requires getting mixed. Ingredients were stored in the isolated, separated tanks inside rockets and inside the Bulialdus’ reservoir located underground to the side of the spaceport. The girl didn’t know what caused the first explosion—not only was every guess terrifying, and she didn’t have the ability to process it but the growth of the inflamed area, combined with the second explosion, inevitably suggested that the pipeline got completely wrecked and it was only a matter of time till more fuel parts got mixed.

        Being located in the lobby on top of the crater, overseeing the whole resort through the panoramic window, Sonya had the unpleasant opportunity to witness everything from the “first row.” The floor of the spaceport turned into lava, spitting fierce red splashes in multiple spots. The bottom parts of three festively decorated sections at the launchpad level, resembling Santorini, Venice, and Biarritz, got partially demolished, and streams of liquid metal covered in a burning layer of propellant traveled through imitations of streets.

        “At least burning fuel won’t travel uphill,” thought Sonya, infused by an extreme dose of adrenaline and mercilessly torn apart by the fact that she was the one in charge of fuel reserve relocation.

        The sound of rain repeated stronger than previously. Finally she grasped what the origin of it was. The shards from the explosion, chunks of rock and metal, traveled all the way above the station in low gravity and were “pouring” onto the enormous glass; only at this time was the background bright enough to see them.

        For the third time the floor jerked. It jumped so violently that Sonya got thrown a few meters up in the air. It seemed that the whole moon was about to fall apart. The ground above the fuel reservoir, an area of several football fields, got covered in cracks, from which walls of fire and dust spewed upwards hundreds of meters as if the station was shamelessly cosplaying “The Last Day of Pompeii” (reference to the history painting by Karl Bryullov produced in 1830–1833 on the subject of the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in AD 79 (author’s remark)).

        Sonya never had a chance to learn about the problem of a deep, large cavity under the space station and knew about it only from snatches of sentences she heard in conversations between her grandfather and colleagues but it was enough to understand the nature of the next stage of destruction—a series of intense explosions and furious temperatures disrupted the thick layer of moon crust above the enormous cave. The chance of an awful theater of cosmic-level catastrophe unfolding in front of Sonya was so miserably low that it was bordering statistical impossibility; nevertheless, it happened and was developing mercilessly and lightning fast.

        First it was the spaceport that started to collapse into the splashing lake of fire, as if a portal to hell had opened beneath it. Then, the whole top layer of the crater slope detached and began to slide down like an avalanche into the inexorable raging abyss, carrying what was supposed to be the first tourist destination in space towards the inevitable end. The fuel tanker with the supporting claw hanging on the side of it tilted and was falling in the direction of the station while being devoured by a burning mouth. When it almost fully disappeared from view, it was the turn of the ship's main reservoir to surrender to the extreme environment. Its detonation was barely noticeable at the backdrop of the blistering nightmare but produced an outburst strong enough to launch the torn-off nose section of the tanker, the size of a 5-story building, in the direction of the lobby where Sonya and Ben were located. It was rapidly approaching, spinning and splashing flames of mixing fuel parts as it flew, like the giant severed head of a fire-breathing dragon.

        Sonya, still being weightless in a slow lunar freefall as the floor was descending as well, managed to turn around, hoping to take the last look at her Ben. The man and the sofa were also thrown in the air and drifted away rotating. The girl caught a glance of his face for just a split second, yet it was enough to see that there was no fear, doubt, or confusion; only pure cold concentration of the man on the mission, because for him, indeed, it immediately became the top priority.

        The only thing manifested in Ben's head was that Sonya is in immense danger in the middle of an unfolding lunar cataclysm, with the chances of survival bordering a statistical impossibility; nevertheless, there is nobody who would ever be better cut for this scenario than Ben Armstrong of the US Space Force, just like the time when they first met at the Kennedy Space Center and he was there to catch her when she was falling. His ultimate training came in handy, like never before, as if the years he spent on it led to this final test. Ben considered every second of floundering airborne as an unacceptable waste. He needed to act quickly. Newton's Laws work perfectly fine even in weightlessness because objects still have mass and inertia. The sofa was floating next to him. Ben attempted to grab it and was annoyed to discover that it was measly inches outside of his reach. Time was cruelly playing against him and the distance between him and Sonya was growing. The man frantically looked around in search of a solution but nothing seemed to offer one.

        Tick-tock, tick-tock... He began to check his pockets in a hurry, nearly expecting to find something that wasn’t there before, when his hand landed on the belt buckle like during a TSA check. Bingo! He sharply pulled out the belt, made a loop, hooked the corner of the sofa and brought it towards himself. He estimated that the piece of furniture had too small a mass to provide the man with the decent foundation to thrust himself across the room towards Sonya but the floor, however, was only a couple of meters beneath. He waited till rotation positioned him optimally and pushed away. It turned out that the sofa was even lighter than it looked because it traveled towards the ceiling much faster than Ben in the opposite direction.

        Tick-tock, tick-tock… He landed on the rumbling floor in the perfectly mastered body position of the sprinter executing the crouch start. The man inhaled deeply, mapped out the trajectory in his mind, and launched himself as an arrow in the direction of the girl with all his might. As he flew, he reached into the pocket on his thigh for the injection that would prolong the life of at least one of them.

        Their eyes met.

​

        The last thing Sonya saw was that lively warmth from their first meeting. Choking on her tears and shaking with her whole body, she whispered, “I’m sorry, Ben,” when a hundred-ton flaming chunk of fuel tanker smashed through the gigantic panoramic window. A glowing sign reading “Welcome to Luna Hermosa” went out.

        Darkness…