Origin. Stephen Baxter
Malenfant sipped water from a plastic bottle. ‘So how come you’ve been pursuing me around NASA? What do you want, Nemoto?’
‘I believe we can help each other. You want to set up a mission to reach the Red Moon. So do I. I believe we should. I believe we must. I can get you there.’
Suddenly his heart was pumping. ‘How?’
Rapidly, with the aid of a pocket softscreen, she sketched out a cut-down mission profile, using a simplified version of Malenfant’s Shuttle-based Big Dumb Booster design, topped by a Space Station evacuation lander, adapted for the Moon’s conditions. ‘It will not be safe,’ she said. ‘But it will work. And it could be done, we believe, in a couple of months, at a cost of a few billion dollars.’
It was fast and dirty, even by the standards of the proposals he had been touting himself. But it could work … ‘If we could get anybody to fund it.’
‘There are many refugee Japanese who would support this,’ Nemoto said gravely. ‘Of all the major nations it is perhaps the Japanese who have suffered most in this present disaster. Among the refugees, there is a strong desire at least to know, to understand what has caused the deaths of so many. Thus there are significant resources to call on. But we would need to work with NASA, who have the necessary facilities for ground support.’
‘Which is where I come in.’ He drank his water. ‘Nemoto, maybe you’re speaking to the wrong guy. I’ve already tried, remember. And I got nowhere. I come up against brick walls like Joe Bridges the whole time.’
‘We must learn to work with Mr Bridges, not against him.’
‘How?’
She touched his hand. Her skin was cold. He was shocked by the sudden, unexpected contact. ‘By telling the truth, Malenfant. You care nothing for geology or planetology or the mystery of the Red Moon, or even the Tide, do you? You want to find Emma.’ She withdrew her hand. ‘It is a motive that will awaken people’s hearts.’
‘Ah. I get it. You want me to be a fundraiser. To blub on live TV.’
‘You will provide a focus for the project – a human reason to pursue it. At a time when the waters are lapping over the grain fields, nobody cares about science. But they always care about family. We need a story, Malenfant. A hero.’
‘Even if that hero is a Quixote.’
She looked puzzled. ‘Quixote’s was a good story. And so will yours be.’
She didn’t seem in much doubt that he’d ultimately fall into line. And, looking into his heart, neither did he.
Irritated by her effortless command, he snapped, ‘So why are you so keen to go exploring the new Moon, Nemoto? Just to figure why Japan got trashed?… I’m sorry.’
She shrugged. ‘There is more. I have read of your speeches on the Fermi Paradox.’
‘I wouldn’t call them speeches. Bullshit for goodwill tours …’
‘As a child, your eyes were raised to the stars. You wondered who was looking back. You wondered why you couldn’t see them. Just as I did, half a world away.’
He gestured at the Moon. ‘Is that what you think this is? We were listening for a whisper of radio signals from the stars. You couldn’t get much less subtle a first contact than this.’
‘I think this huge event is more than that – even more significant. Malenfant, people rained out of the sky. They may or may not belong to a species we recognize, but they were people. It is clear to me that the meaning of the Red Moon is intimately bound up with us: what it is to be human – and why we are alone in the cosmos.’
‘Or were.”
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And, consider this. This Red Moon simply appeared in our sky … It is not as if a fleet of huge starships towed it into position. We don’t know how it got there. And we don’t know how long it will stay, conveniently poised next to the Earth. The Wheel disappeared just hours after it arrived. If we don’t act now –’
‘Yes, you’re right. We must act urgently.’ The sun was a shimmering globe suspended on the edge of the ocean, and Malenfant began to feel its heat draw at the skin of his face. ‘We’ve a lot to talk about.’
‘Yes.’
They walked up the path to their cars.
Fire:
The sun is above his head. The air is hot and still. The red ground shines brightly through brittle grass. People move to and fro on the red dust.
Fire thinks of Dig. He thinks of himself touching Dig’s hair, her dugs, the small of her back. His member stiffens. His eyes and ears seek Dig. They don’t find her.
He sees Sing.
Sing is lying flat on her bower, in the sun. Her head does not rise. Her hand does not lift from where it is sprawled in the red dirt. Her legs are splayed. Flies nibble at her belly and eyes and mouth.
Fire squats. His hands flap at the flies, chasing them away. He shakes Sing’s shoulder. ‘Sing Sing Fire Sing!’
She does not move. He puts his finger in her mouth. It is dry.
Fire picks up Sing’s hand. It is limp, but her arm is stiff. He drops the hand. The arm falls back with a soft thump. Dust rises, falls back.
Emma is beside him.
‘Fire. Maxie is ill. Perhaps you can help. Umm, Maxie sore Maxie. Fire Maxie … Fire, is something wrong?’
Her eyes look at Sing. Her hands press at Sing’s neck. Emma’s head drops over Sing’s mouth, and her ear listens.
Fire thinks of Sing laughing. She is huge and looms over him. Her face blocks out the sun.
He looks at the slack eyes, the open mouth, the dried drool. This is not Sing.
His legs stand him up. He bends down and lifts the body over his shoulders. It is stiff. It is cold.
Emma stands. ‘Fire? Are you all right?’
Fire’s legs jog downwind. They jog until his eyes see the people are far away. Then his arms dump the body on the ground. It sprawls. He hears bones snap. Gas escapes from its backside.
Bad meat.
He jogs away, back to the people.
He goes to Sing’s bower. But the bower is empty. People are here, and then they are gone, leaving no memorials, no trace but their children, as transient as lions or deer or worms or clouds. Sing is gone from the world, as if she never existed. Soon he will forget her.
He scatters the branches with his foot.
Emma is watching him.
Sally is here, holding Maxie. Maxie is weeping. Emma says, ‘Fire, I’m sorry. Can you help us? I don’t know what to do …’
Fire grins. He reaches for Maxie.
Maxie cringes. Sally pulls him back.
Emma says, ‘No, Fire. He doesn’t want to play. Fire Maxie ill sick sore.’
Fire frowns. He touches Maxie’s forehead. It is hot and wet. He touches his belly. It is hard.
He thinks of a shrub with broad, coarse-textured leaves. He does not know why he thinks of the shrub. He doesn’t even formulate the question. The knowledge is just there.
He lopes to the forest. His ears listen and his eyes peer into the dark greenery. There are no Nutcracker-folk. There are no Elf-folk.
He sees the shrub. He reaches out and plucks leaves.
His legs