ILLUSIONS OF TRANQUILLITY

by Brendan DuBois

* * * *

Brendan DuBois is best known in the mystery and thriller genres, where he has published scores of stories and almost a dozen novels, including Six Days, Resurrection Day, and Killer Waves. He says that while he has published plenty of short fiction in fantasy/sf anthologies like Knight Fantastic, Alternate Gettysburgs, and Man vs. Machine, he has been trying to place a story in a professional sf magazine since 1973. Now he’s gone and done it with this here story of life on the Moon.

I was covered with dust, working hard on an HVAC Series Four-Twelve air filter series from the good folks at 3M, carefully vacuuming each side, when my tube’s tell-tale rang, telling me I had a visitor. I called out, “Minerva, no visitors, all right?” and my homegirl acknowledged with a couple of beeps, and I went back to work, knowing that Minerva had now lit my do not disturb bar outside.

The filters are large, a meter to each side, and according to the tech spec sheets, are to be replaced after six months of use. Well, these dusty puppies were at least three years old, and by hand-vacuuming each one of them, we hoped to extend their life by another year or so. Not sure the nice folks at 3M would think this was a great idea—hey, did you know 3M stands for Minnesota Mining & Manufacturing?—but when the nearest 3M outlet is more than three hundred thousand klicks away, you make do.

The tell-tale rang again and I stopped with the vacuum nozzle, and a familiar male voice came over the speaker in the WC, where I was working. “Sorry, Eva, I need to see you.”

I carefully put the filter I had cleaned to one side. “Feeling not mutual, Tom.”

“Colony business,” he said. “Need to talk soonest.”

“I’m busy,” I said. “Doing my daily required volunteering.”

“This is more important,” came the voice from overhead. “Look, Eva, don’t make me override your lock. That’ll mean an entry report has to be filed, hearings held, blah-blah-blah.”

I picked up the next-to-the-last filter, looked at all the gray dust clogging it, from one side to the next. “Tell me what’s so hot, and then I’ll let you in.”

“Vip dip this afternoon,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Ugh,” I said. “Come on, I’m third on the list this quarter.”

“You were third, but number one’s monthly arrived early, and number two’s in the infirmary, throwing up whatever she manages to swallow.”

I looked at myself in the small mirror in the WC. Short black hair, not a bad bod, just wearing plain paper panties, for with all the dust kicked up in the air, why get everything else filthy? Besides, when done, cleaning me and the WC only took a few minutes with a few judicial sprays of water, emphasis on the word judicial.

“Eva?” came the voice, just one step away from begging.

“All right,” I said, letting the vacuum nozzle fall to the floor. “Give me a second to get decent.”

And Tommy, bless him, kept his mouth shut.

* * * *

I wiped down the best I could with a couple of wet cloths, and then scooted out of the WC into my main tube, tossed on a robe, and called out, “Minerva, unlock main access.”

Before me was my personal hatchway leading out to Beta Corridor: it slipped open and Tommy O’Kane scooted in, the hatchway sliding closed behind him. The glowsticks for my tube were at sixty percent brightness, not at my request, which failed to illuminate some of the corners. The tube was the standard design, WC off to my left, the living quarters in the center, with a tiny kitchen area, sleeping bunk, and round table. A wallscreen showed an on-going dust storm at the base of Olympus Mons, millions of klicks away.

Tommy gave a quick bow, which I returned, and said, “Sorry to bother you, cousin.”

“Yeah, right. Who’s the vip?”

“A real oldster. One of the originals from Microsoft, up here for the usual meet and greet.”

I couldn’t help myself. I groaned and sat down at the table. “Please ... the usual, right?”

“Yeah.”

I looked at Tommy, who had on the standard dark gray jumpsuit. Dust doesn’t show up as much on a gray jumpsuit, and his beard was finally starting to fill in. Poor Tommy, three years older than me and assigned to External Relations, a job that pretty much sucked from one end to the next. Me, I’m only assigned to External Relations on an as-needed basis, and being who we are and what we are, it meant a steady gig, most months.

I gathered my robe about me. “Okay. What’s it going to be? Option A or Option B?”

Tommy’s face showed a bit of relief. “Option A.”

“Good,” I said, repressing a shudder. “Which one you thinking of using?”

“Flag,” he said. “The guy seems responsive.”

“All right,” I said.

He unzipped a pocket to his jumpsuit, passed over a thick plastic envelope. “The man’s name is Roger Kimball. Staying at the Hyatt, room three. Scheduled to depart tomorrow at oh-nine-hundred. True blue, so you shouldn’t have any problems. He’s in his quarters now, we expect him to be there the rest of the day. Questions?”

I took the envelope in hand. “Price?”

Tommy’s face now hardened. “We were hoping ... well, the council was hoping, that, um....”

“What? What was the council hoping?”

“It was hoped that since it was an Option A, that um, you’d consider it just another volunteer gig, and um, not a paying gig.”

I smiled sweetly at him. “That’s very thoughtful of them.” I tossed the envelope up into the air, where it rose up, hung for a moment, and then began its slow descent. “Tell you what, Tommy, if that envelope hits the table before we agree on a price, then you’re going to have to find another girl.”

He looked up at the envelope, eyeing its slow fall. “Extra water ration for next month.”

“How much?”

“Two decaliters.”

The envelope was drifting down close to the table.

“Four.”

“Deal,” he quickly said.

“For two months,” I just as quickly added. “Beginning the moment you leave my tube.”

“You—”

The envelope was almost there. I kept on smiling.

“Deal,” he said, just as the envelope came to rest on the stone table.

“Very good,” I said.

And as he got up, poor Tommy, no doubt under pressure for what he had to do in his job, whispered something foul, which I let slide right off me. I stood up and said, “Maybe so, but at least I know who I am, and what I do.”

Tommy said bitterly, “That allow you to sleep at night?”

I bowed. “You can leave now, cousin, and trust me, you’ll never be here long enough to find out how I sleep.”

* * * *

So when Tommy left, I slid out my keyboard, dumped the Mars footage on my wallscreen, and called up my household account. When I saw the bump in my water ration, I silently thanked Tommy for keeping his part of the deal. I dropped the robe and went back into the WC, quickly finished off the last filter cleaning, and then dragged out the newly cleaned filters to the hatchway. “Minerva,” I said, “arrange for filter pickup, task four-twelve-six completed.”

The return beep-beeps gave me all the acknowledgment I needed, and I went into the WC, whistling, thinking I’d like a long, hot shower—as long as I can stand it—and that pleasant thought managed to outweigh temporarily what was going to happen later.

* * * *

When I got out, the filters had been picked up, and then I got dressed, first pulling out some black frilly things that a vip had brought me a year ago, and then putting on my best and cleanest jumpsuit. It really didn’t fit me that well, but for vips it fit just right, snug around my bottom and my boobs—the two best B’s, as some would say—and I picked up the plastic envelope and exited my tube. Now I was in Beta Corridor, and I started loping my way up to Terminus, running through my mind the usual vip chatter and nonsense I’d have to start flinging soon. It sounds weird, but I do have a sense of pride in my work.

As I loped along, my feet barely touching the stone floor of Beta Corridor, I saw that the glowsticks along here were still dim, as dim as the ones in my own tube, and that meant that Engineering still hadn’t gotten Reactor Two back on line. I wish those overeducated morons would get it fixed, and soon. In Beta Corridor, it was mostly residential and dorm tubes. Some of the more enterprising souls had little selling stands out in front of their hatchways, trading or battering goods that they either made, or that came up to them via visitors or relatives back there.

Even though most of the stuff I’ve seen over and over again, I usually like to linger and see what’s for sale, but I had a job to do, and I wanted to get it over with, as soon as I could. One young boy whistled at me and said, “You go, Eva! Maybe you’ll take me one of these days!”

And I called back, “You’ll never be able to afford me, cousin!” and the cheerful laughter followed me as I kept up my moving, now coming to a wider and brighter area that marked Terminus. Other corridors—Alpha, Gamma, and Delta stretched away in the darkness—but I was looking to enter Main. Unlike the large open hatchways for the other three corridors, the one leading to Main was narrower, only big enough for one person to pass through at one time. And Main was blocked by a checkpoint, where a thin man in a gray jumpsuit, with tiny frayed red epaulets marking Security, got up from his chair and said, “Left or right?”

“Right,” I said, and he held up a scanner. I passed my right wrist across—the one with the smartchip, inserted when I was born—and he looked down and nodded. “Unlimited access, but you’re due out by ten hundred tomorrow. Sound right?”

I nodded, silently cursing Tommy, knowing that he and the others had arranged this so if Option B became an opportunity, I could legally be in Main and spend the night and morning with the vip. How fricking sweet, how fricking thoughtful.

“Yeah, sounds right,” I said.

He pressed a switch that was underneath the counter, and the hatchway slid open, leading to another closed hatchway. We exchanged bows and he said, “Not a nice thing, what you’re doing.”

“Has to be done.”

He said, “If you ever decide to stop—”

“Oh, Christ, spare me, okay?”

And I entered the dark lock.

The hatchway behind me closed, and a light softly switched on. The hatchway before me slid open, and my eyes blinked at the brightness, and I stepped slowly forward—

And walked into paradise.

* * * *

First thing I noticed, of course, was the fake turf on the stone beneath my feet, and even though it was fake, I stepped out and kicked off my slippers, just let my toes play in the turf for a few minutes. The other thing I noticed was the soft music, playing out there from hidden speakers. The lights were quite bright—no power rationing in Main, of course—and the place was clean, well-lit, and looked wonderful. It even smelled fine. Funny thing is, whenever I’m in the other corridors, I never notice the smell of all those ill-washed bodies until I come here. Main was much wider than any of the other corridors, and there were outdoor places for drinking and eating and gathering. There were stalls as well, selling stuff, but me and everyone else who lived back in the corridors weren’t allowed to come here to buy. Which was okay, in a way, since none of us—save for a very fortunate few—could afford what was for sale. People moved about, and even from a distance, it was easy to see who belonged and who didn’t: those who didn’t moved about like they were drunk or had some neurological disorder.

But what really ticked me off was in the center of Main, in a little stone plaza—a fountain! It wasn’t that big—I’ve seen vids of fountains from back there, how large they were—but it was big enough, and in our gravity, the water did the most amazing things in shapes, loops, and mist clouds ... but being the cynical bitch I am, I guess, I didn’t see the beauty. I just saw the waste. Oh, the Council claimed that the wastage was minimal, that the system captured and recycled most everything else, and that the visitors from back there found it a treat, but still ... a waste.

And to make it even nastier, there was a plaque on the base of the fountain, describing how and when the colony was founded, and trust me, save for the dates, everything on that plaque was a lie. The noble words about founding a new stepping stone for the benefit of mankind ... as if.

So. I moved around, going up to the small hatchway that had the Hyatt logo glowing overhead. I waved my wrist in front of the hatch, it slid open, and then I went into the tiny lobby area, and since I knew where I was going, I just loped down the turf-covered corridor to a door marked three. Not far to travel, since there were only six rooms here. Some time ago, in a wonderful bit of grift, the Colony arranged this deal with Hyatt, and believe me, there’s never been full occupancy here, ever. I rang the tell-tale on the little key station outside of the door and a voice came out, “Yes, who is it?”

“Roger Kimball?” I asked.

“Yes?”

“My name’s Eva Lindsay. I was hoping I could see you.” I made myself a little bet: the man’s got a head injury. If I was right, then I could take another shower later this evening as a treat.

I waited, knowing that old Mister Kimball was no doubt looking at the vid screen on the other side, scoping out the sweet native girl in her too-tight jumper, zipper low enough to show frilly black underthings, and knowing crime was impossible here—with all the CCTV, how could it be anything else?—and his doorway clicked open, and he stood there, smiling.

“Come on in, please,” he said. I looked him over as I entered: a lean old man wearing tan trousers and a long-sleeved blue shirt, crewcut with gray-white hair, and fair, wrinkled face. I shook his hand and let him close the door behind me. I noticed he had a small bandage on the back of his head, and thought, score, I can take that shower later.

I took in his room, noting that it was about three times the size of my own home tube, with real furniture brought up by heavy cost from back there. There was also a vid screen showing some ocean scene, and lots of nice gear and geegaws and a little place that looked like a wet bar.

He sat down, moving a bit awkwardly. He looked me over as I slid into my own chair. I almost sighed, feeling how soft it was. If I was any more tired, I could have fallen right asleep right there. I smiled at him and said, “How’s your head feeling?”

The old man touched his bandage, smiled sheepishly, and said, “All right. It was—”

“An accident, right?”

He nodded. “Yes ... the first night I was here, I couldn’t help myself. I had to see how far up I could jump, and I hit the ceiling.”

I smiled. “Happens all the time.”

He returned the smile. “Still ... it was embarrassing.”

“No worries,” I said. “The medicos here see it all the time.”

“I’m sure,” he said, crossing his legs. “So, what can I do for you, young lady?”

I took a breath, half-proud, half-ashamed at how good I was at this. “I understand you’re leaving tomorrow, at oh-nine hundred. I do work for the Council on occasion, and one of my jobs is doing an informal debrief of our most important visitors, to see how their trip was, and what might be done to improve conditions for our future visitors.”

Roger’s smile got wider, and it looked like tears formed in his eyes. “This trip ... sounds so simple, doesn’t it. A trip. But this trip’s been a dream of mine ... for as long as I can remember ... and to see it come true ... sometimes I still feel like it’s all unreal, that I’m actually here.”

Okay, I thought, we can dip into our luxury goods after the shower if he talks about Armstrong and company, and sure enough, he wiped at his eyes and said, “You may find it hard to believe, but I’m old enough to remember the Eagle landing, back in ‘69.”

I managed to fake enthusiasm and surprise in one tone of voice, which I thought was pretty good. “Really? You don’t look old enough, honest.”

He grinned. “I was nine years old. Watching on a black and white television set in our living room, in Missouri. A Sunday evening, my parents let me stay up late ... I was so lucky to be able to watch it, and so lucky to remember it all. Seeing the landing leg of the LM, seeing that ghost-shape coming down ... the first man on the moon. And I was alive to see it. And here I am ... all these decades later, on the same place Armstrong, Aldrin, Conrad, Bean, and the eight others walked on. Incredible.”

“Yes, it is incredible.”

“And you, you look young enough to be native born. True?”

I nodded. “True. There’s a couple dozen of us who were born here.”

“God, how fortunate.”

I had to bite my tongue. Fortunate, Christ.... But I managed to keep it all under control and I said, “I bet it was expensive to come here.”

He shrugged. “I can afford it ... and I’m not getting any younger, Eva.”

I crossed my legs. “So you’re pleased with your trip?”

“Quite pleased,” he said, “but I’m curious about a few things. Look, mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Go right ahead,” I replied, ticking off in my head the usual big three questions, which will be followed by my big three lies. And bless my new best friend, he asked the three big questions, and in order, as well: visit here, visit on-top, and visit back there.

“The Colony ... except for a couple of escorted visits, I wonder why we’re not allowed free access to all of the residential corridors.” He laughed. “It’s almost like you’re trying to hide something.”

I smiled. “I know, strange, isn’t it? But like you were briefed on, there needs to be some sort of temporary quarantine, just in case you and the other—” and oops, almost called him vip, which is a no-no in polite company “—visitors are carrying germs or bugs that we’re not able to treat. We have a first-class medical system here, but if everyone in the Colony were to get sick, all at once, it would put a tremendous strain on our resources.”

“I see,” he said, “It just ... well, it just reminded me of Cuba.”

That surprised me. Cuba? I remember the vids and lessons on Cuba, an impossibly beautiful island in the Caribbean, home of a lot of history, most of it unpleasant. “Why Cuba?” I said.

“There was a time ... when I was younger and way before your time,” he said, “when there was a separate system. For visitors and tourists. Special shops, attractions and beaches that only the tourists could visit. The government tried hard not to let the tourists and the residents mix.”

My fists were clenched and I had to push myself to relax. “Well, we’re mixing now, aren’t we?”

That brought a laugh but I reminded myself to research what Roger had just told me. Cuba!

“And your other questions?” I asked. “Go on.”

“I went for a trip, up to the surface, and I was stunned to find out that so few people actually go up there. Why is that?”

I shrugged. “Comfort, mostly. Look, it takes a long time to get prepped to go up and out, and for most of us ... it’s a pain. Why take the time to go out? There are enough rovers and remotes that can give you any kind of data you’re looking for. And suits are expensive, there are only a limited number and most of the time, they’re reserved for tech staff, or for the astronomers.”

“But you’ve been to the surface.”

“Sure. A few times. It’s a nice break, to get out and actually see the sun and the sky.”

But not like back there, I thought, not like back there, to actually feel wind on your face....

He smiled again. “I know this is going to sound strange, but ... being native-born. Have you ever thought of coming to Earth for a visit?”

Bingo, question number three. “Sure I have,” I said. “But I don’t have to tell you how expensive it is. And plus, well, there’s always been questions about physiology. My body is used to the gravity here. I think I could handle the weight training, but could my immune system handle Earth germs? Nobody really knows ... and like I said, it’s expensive.”

Roger nodded. “Funny how many science fiction authors predicted, even a hundred years ago, that going from the Moon to the Earth would be a problem for her colonists.”

Sure, I thought, but they sure missed the boat on a whole lot of other predictions, and why was it that all the vips who came here were males with childhood dreams? We’ve never had a female vip here, not once, and it just showed me the superiority of my sex. Too practical, I guess. Roger shifted in his chair and said, “Look, lunch is being served shortly ... would you care to join me?”

I couldn’t help it, my mouth started watering. “That ... that would be wonderful.”

“What would you like?”

“Anything, anything would be fine.”

He picked up a free handset, made the call. “Anything it’ll be.”

* * * *

As we waited for lunch to arrive, Roger blathered on and on about his trip here, the most amazing thing he had ever experienced, from the launch at Baikonur to the rendezvous at Bigelow, and then the three-day trip here, the shuttle descent, blah blah blah. Then the tell-tale rang and Roger got up, getting up too quickly and almost rising up to the ceiling. He gave me a goofy grin and said, “After a few days, you’d think I’d be used to it.”

I got up and helped him. “Not to worry. Happens all the time.”

He got the door open and one of my cousins came in, wearing slacks and a white coat, and he winked at me as he set up the tray. Roger placed his thumbprint on the room service ticket, and that was that.

We sat down at a round table—it felt like real wood, though I don’t recall hearing about such pricey upgrades—and we ate lunch: a fruit juice, salad, and a two-egg omelet with real cheese and veggies. It all tasted so fine and delicious. When I was finished, I looked over and saw that my new best friend hadn’t finished his salad.

Hadn’t finished his salad. He was wiping his lips and then his hands with a cloth napkin, and he hadn’t finished his salad.

I had to put my hands under the table, to clasp them together, to stop them from shaking. It was just over a year ago when we lost half of our farm tanks to some creeping crud that took a long time to control, and in that time, we were all on short rations. Back then I lived with Mother and Father in their tube, and they were part of the decision group about what to do. Food was cut back once, twice, and there were rumors—which I’ve never had the guts to check on—that more drastic measures were being considered if that creeping crud couldn’t be contained.

It was, eventually, but I still remember going to bed hungry, and I still remember looking at our small rations of greens and vegetables ... and it didn’t make sense for me to get angry, but I did.

He hadn’t finished his salad!

* * * *

So when the dishes were taken away he looked at me again and folded his hands, and then there was a magic trick, when the look on his face changed. “All right, Eva, let’s get to it, all right?”

Oh, he was good, quite good, but it was what I expected. How could it be otherwise, him having lived so long, and having made the mega-euros to fly himself out here and back?

So I played along. “I’m sorry, Mister Kimball, I don’t know what you mean.”

He laughed. “Oh, come on. You said you were coming in to do a survey, to find out about my trip, and you haven’t taken a note, haven’t asked any really probing questions, have just been a quiet and sweet lunch partner. So. What’s going on?”

I looked down, willed my face to flush on cue. “I ... I have a business proposal for you.”

“Really? What kind of deal? Investment? Don’t be offended, but sharper and better-dressed men and women have already talked my ear off, trying for me to invest some more in this little venture ... and I’m sorry, that part of my investment strategy has been tapped out.”

I shook my head. “No ... more of a sale. A one-of-a-kind sale.”

“Of what?”

“Of this,” I said.

I leaned back and unzipped a side jumper pocket, pulled out a plastic wrapped package, and I took my time, unwrapping the plastic, slowly drawing it out, now seeing his gaze focus on my hands. Unwrapped and unwrapped, and then colors came to view, faded colors, a splash of blue, a splash of red, a splash of white. Finally I was done and spread the plastic out, and the little faded square of fabric was in the middle, soiled, of course, with the ever-present gray dust.

Roger’s voice was hoarse. “Tell me what that is. Tell me now.”

“A square of fabric. Left behind in July 1969. Untouched by human hands for all those decades ... until now.”

He looked up. “Impossible. You’re ... you must be at least five hundred klicks away from there. At least! And I know what you have here, and what you don’t have here. There’s no way anybody from the Colony could get to Tranquillity and back again.”

“True,” I said, gently touching the edges of the dusty material. “No human could go from here to there. But a small rover could, solar-powered, with one mission and one only: to collect souvenirs. Some of our more brighter engineers did this ... took a number of years, but it’s worked. It’s been back and forth from the first landing area twice, but we’ve been doing it quietly, of course.”

“Of course,” Roger whispered, looking down at the little square. “NASA would go ballistic if they knew what you were doing.”

I gave him a sharp grin. “From what I hear, NASA needs to go ballistic, but for the past twenty or thirty years, all they’ve been doing is launching unmanned probes and paper spaceships that never get metal cut.”

He kept his gaze lowered, looking at the fabric like it was some holy relic, from what I’ve read of the holy men from the Middle Ages. Collecting relics, pieces of the cross, that sort of thing. A slim finger went over, gently touching the frayed and faded nylon.

“For sale.”

“That it is,” I said.

“And that’s what you do. Sell souvenirs to your visitors.”

Despite my cheery face, I felt a cringe. Sure, I thought, and that’s Option A ... and Option B is a whole lot more undesirable, and sometimes I do that as well. It’s my job, and everyone here, young and old, has a job. “Sometimes. But only if we feel there’s someone who’d be interested. Someone with a love of this place, a love of the history.”

Tears came back into his eyes, as he nudged the fabric again. “I’ve got to have it. How much?”

“Make me an offer,” I said, knowing what the Council demanded, hoping he would get close enough so that I wouldn’t have to offer him Option B to close the deal, and I almost breathed a sigh of relief when he offered me a figure that was ten percent more than we had planned for.

“Mister Kimball,” I said, sliding the piece of nylon over to him. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

* * * *

So after a few minutes on his keyboard here in his tube, transferring the funds from one of his accounts to a Colony account based in the Cayman Islands—and what a magical place that seemed to be—he made me some tea and we talked a bit more, and then I decided it was time to leave.

He got up from his couch—better, this time, he was improving—and he said, “One more thing, before you go.”

“What’s that?”

Roger went into the bedroom area of his tube—such luxury, to have a separate room to sleep in!—and came back out. “I ... I know how expensive it is, to ship things up here. So I want to give you a few gifts, Eva. If you don’t mind.”

I hoped he didn’t see the eagerness in my look. “No, I don’t mind, not at all.”

With that, he passed over a plastic bag with the Hyatt logo on it, and I opened it up and peered inside. Clustered in there were treasures, treasures that I resisted the urge to take out and fondle and ooh and aah over. I then closed the bag and looked up at him, gave him a big smile, a genuine one this time.

“Thanks ... thanks Mister Kimball,” I said.

He looked a bit embarrassed. “Not much, but I thought you’d like it.” He looked around and laughed, “You know, all my life, I’ve traveled and stayed in hotel rooms, and this is probably the dumpiest one I’ve ever been in ... and I don’t care. And what I find sad is ... well, is the thought I’ll never come back.”

I tried to be cheerful. He thought this place was dumpy! “Oh, I’m sure you will, one of these days.”

A sad shake of his head. “With money, you can do a lot, but you can’t hold back time any longer—especially since that immortality research stuff went bust. The docs for the transport nearly downchecked me before I left; I doubt I’ll be healthy enough to ever travel like this, ever again. But still ... I made it. Made it here.”

“Yes, you certainly did,” I said, and now I really wanted to leave, but there was one more surprise. From the shirt pocket he took out a rectangle of cardboard, passed it over. “Here. My business card. With my personal phone and personal e-mail ... if you ever do make it to Earth. Eva, it was a pleasure meeting you, and I thank you so much for the piece of flag ... I can’t tell you how much it meant to me.”

I pocketed the card in my jumpsuit and in a half-lope, made it to his door, wanting to hide my face, for at least a moment. “I know. And I’ll know you’ll cherish it.”

He held out his hand, and there was a twinkle in his eye, and for almost a moment, when he gently kissed me on the cheek, I thought about Option B and, well, I could have lived with it.

* * * *

Later, back in my tube, I ignored a couple of messages from Tommy—no doubt looking to congratulate me for once again single-handily swelling the Colony’s budget options—and took my promised second shower. Then, after putting on an Africa savannah loop on the wallscreen, I sat cross-legged on my sleeping platform, looking at the treasures Roger had given me. There were vials of shampoo, of perfume, and some hard candies and chocolate and a couple of tiny bottles of wine and bourbon. I drank one of the little bottles of wine and ate one of the chocolates, and everything else went into a little locker I have, stashed under my platform. In there were some coffee crystals, tea bags, more candies, scents, other bits of frilly clothing and in a little wooden container, some Earth soil. I let my finger dance a bit in the soil, and feeling a bit woozy from the rich food I ate and the alcohol I had drunk, I stretched out and said, “Minerva, lights out, wake-up in eight hours.”

The little bleep-bleep of acknowledgment, and I rolled over and fell asleep.

* * * *

Sometime during the night, I had to use the WC. When I was finished, the light from the WC lit up something on the floor. I bent down and picked it up, saw that it was the business card that Roger had left me, and sure enough, there was his name and five different contact numbers and e-mail addresses. And I don’t know why I did it, but I turned over the card, and there was a little handwritten note.

I read the note three times.

Then went to the keyboard, quickly toggled up some info, and got dressed.

* * * *

Too late, of course, too late to make it personal, but I went to Surface Access One—doubt they’ll ever make a Surface Access Two—and signed out one of the P-suits. In a dark corridor leading out of the sign-in area, a row of suits hung there, empty, looking like the discarded skin of some awful insect. I got one of the suits in my size, and spent a while, getting everything put on, plugged in and checked out. The suit smelled of sweat, piss, and the sour tang of vomit. All of them did.

And there were plenty of suits. “Our little secret, Roger,” I whispered to myself as I slowly walked up the ramp to the surface, feeling like one of those old black-and-white vid mummies. “When it comes to suit maintenance, it’s low on the list of priorities, especially when priorities are keeping air, water, food, and lights running. So who wants to die from a suit failure for a stupid walk on the surface?”

Outside the light was bright indeed, and I lowered the helmet visor. I didn’t have to walk far. From where I was, I could see the spindly frame of the shuttle craft, ready to take Roger and whatever other rich vips who were ready to go back home.

Home. The word sounded so rich and full.

“Secrets,” I whispered, staring at the shuttle craft, wondering how delightful it must be, to climb inside. “We have so many. Why we keep you away from the residential corridors ... because we’re horrified if people found out how poor we were, how much we struggle, that there’d be pressure to close us down. Like that fake flag fabric we sold you, for needed cash. And God, do we need cash, because we still need supplies from Earth to survive, another dirty little secret. And sometimes, damn it, sometimes we trade something more dear than fake flag fabrics.”

I saw movement at the base of the shuttle. It was getting close.

“Other secrets,” I whispered. “You and so many others ... brought into the romance of what it would be like to be here. But I didn’t have a choice, now, did I? I’m here, stuck because my parents, the stupid people, were dreamers. Fine. They like short rations, little water and tiny cubes, fine. But why didn’t I get a choice?”

Another few minutes passed, and then I thought about the card that Roger Kimball had left me, two little handscribbled lines that promised so much:

* * * *

Eva, when the time comes for college, let me know. I’ll bring you to Earth on full scholarship. R.

* * * *

A light flared, at the base of the shuttle, and in a cloud of dust it rose up, higher and higher, quickly becoming just a moving dot of light. I leaned back, followed the promising little dot of light, as long as I could, and then I said one more thing into the void.

“Please,” I whispered, “please get me out of here.”

But if I was lucky, I had time.

I mean, I’m not even seventeen yet.