Tendrils to the Moon

By Joseph Dooley

Billionaire Wayne Sheridan leads an expedition to start a permanent Moon colony. Retired Colonel Montgomery Ames, with his family in tow, earns a coveted spot on the expedition as second-in-command. When Sheridan's obsession endangers lives, Ames must find a way to protect his family and the crew while leading them into the great unknown...

Tendrils to the Moon tells the story of two men who are driven to their physical and mental limits on the stark, pitiless lunar landscape. To achieve his dreams, however, one of them wagers more than the other is willing to pay. As they battle the elements and each other, the fate of mankind's first lunar colony hangs in the balance.

Rated PG-13 for violence and occasional mild language.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joseph Dooley
• Release date: Jul 2, 2018

Joseph Dooley

Joseph Dooley is a writer, as well as a Christian, a Texan, a husband, and a father.

Book preview

Tendrils to the Moon

by

Joseph Dooley

©2018 Joseph Dooley.

All rights reserved.

This book may not be reprinted, in whole or in part, without prior express written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Joseph Dooley.

I wish to thank my wife Deborah for her extraordinary patience and self-sacrifice while I worked on this book, and for encouraging me to pursue my passion. This is for her.

Contents

Chapter 1. Rendezvous

Chapter 2. Flotilla

Chapter 3. Rebellion

Chapter 4. Injection

Chapter 5. Descent

Chapter 6. Regolith

Chapter 7. Accident

Chapter 8. Structure

Chapter 9. Perseverance

Chapter 10. Article

Chapter 11. Escape

Chapter 12. Superpower

About the Author

Author’s Note

Characters in this book use the metric system because it is the easier of the two systems of measurement, metric and standard, to scale up and down and to convert speed and mass to energy. It is not intended to distract or confuse the reader.

There is a spacecraft in this book called Betelgeuse. The reader may pronounce it however he wishes, but the correct pronunciation, used by the characters in this book, is beetle Jews.

Tendrils

to the

Moon

Chapter 1. Rendezvous

Seven hundred kilometers above the Earth, a transparent, six-sided figure rotated freely around its inner diagonal.

Prism, Connor said.

Correct, a female voice responded, synthetic yet warm. The spinning, incorporeal figure vanished and a new one took its place in the laser light field.

Cone, Connor said.

Very good.

The figures came in rapid succession as the geometry drill continued, and the boy’s answers grew to a fever pitch. Pyramid. Hemisphere! Cylinder!!

He caught the attention of the Betelgeuse pilot and navigator, seated nearby. Isn’t that baby stuff for a boy his age? the pilot whispered, not wanting his doubts about the boss’s son to be overheard.

He’s showing off, the navigator replied. Why do you think he’s not taking his lessons in his room?

The artificial intelligence seemed to agree that the questions were too easy. Let’s try something harder, it suggested.

A new hologram appeared, a truly bizarre thing. Each vertex adjoined four edges, not three. Connor stuck out his finger to arrest the object’s rotation, studying it intently. Half of its 24 faces were trapezoids, the other half squares. He was stumped.

Cube, he guessed. His voice boomed with confidence, as if he could dupe the AI with bravado.

Incorrect. That’s all right, try again.

Tesseract. The answer came from another: a smaller, younger boy with curly, chestnut-colored hair and pale, freckled cheeks.

Correct, the AI said. The younger boy grinned triumphantly.

Lucky guess, Connor said.

It wasn’t a guess, the younger boy replied.

The pilot and navigator snickered.

Check this out. Connor thumbed a switch on the hologram.

A crude animation of the inside of a tunnel appeared. Connor reached into the light field, fingers throwing up long shadows, to take control of a small spacecraft, which he guided through a sort of gauntlet as the tunnel narrowed randomly.

Can I try? the younger boy asked after watching for a minute.

After I crash. Then you can have a turn, Connor said.

The boys were heedless of what was going on the flight deck around them. The Betelgeuse crew were preparing the ship for docking, moving to the slow pulse of a homing signal that sounded throughout the ship, a most welcome sound in the 3 days since they had departed Earth. The homing signal came from the flotilla, a corporate space station in geostationary transfer orbit around the Earth, and planned staging area for the first permanent lunar colony.

Should be able to see it now, Mr. Sheridan, the pilot called out.

Wayne Sheridan disengaged from the conversation he was having with one of the technicians and floated forward into the cockpit. He peered through the quartz glass window that half-ringed the ship’s nose, his sharp, recessed eyes scanning the starry darkness above Earth.

Starboard side, coming up behind us, the navigator said helpfully.

Sheridan pressed his temple to the window’s titanium frame and squinted down the length of the ship. Still unable to see the flotilla, he fetched his camera with 75x optical zoom from a nearby stow point and looked through the viewfinder.

Ah, he gasped upon recognizing the faint, grey lines of the small city, peeking out from behind the ship’s torus, rising out of the hazy blue of Earth’s upper atmosphere. Looks like metal shavings at this range.

What is it, Dad? Connor said, abandoning the game and putting his nose to the window.

Sheridan turned the boy’s head and pointed at the flotilla. Do you see it? That will be our home for the next few weeks.

Then we go to the Moon? the boy asked hopefully.

Then we go to the Moon. He stowed the camera. Have we made contact yet?

Not yet, Mr. Sheridan, the navigator answered, holding out a wireless headset. We thought you would want the honors. A self-promoter his entire adult life, Sheridan was never one to shy away from a historical moment.

You thought right. He took the headset. Mr. Ames, I want you on the call, too, please.

Yes sir.

Montgomery Ames, the ship’s second-in-command, big, lean, and red-haired, donned a headset.

Sheridan started to speak, but stopped when he realized his voice wasn’t coming through the headphone speaker. He frowned, and the navigator reached across him and jabbed a button on the control panel. The homing beacon went silent and the headphone came alive with static.

"FL41, FL41, this is Wayne Sheridan, proprietor of the Betelgeuse, inbound private vessel. Port of call Belize City. Requesting clearance to dock. Over."

He paused 20 seconds. There was no reply, aside from the crackle of static.

"FL41, FL41. This is Betelgeuse, incoming private transport. Do you read? Over."

A female voice responded, muffled, as if buried under a thick blanket. "FL41 to Betelgeuse. Having trouble hearing you. Be advised a solar flare’s been scrambling our comms since yesterday. Point your dish toward the station for better reception. Over."

Sheridan nodded to the navigator, who entered a command on the control panel. An electrical impulse traveled to the antenna mounted on the aluminum hull. The navigator flashed him a thumbs up.

We’re transmitting directly at you, FL41.

The operator’s voice came through more clearly. "That’s better, Betelgeuse. How many personnel are onboard? Over."

We have 10 crew, including myself, and 18 dependents.

"Do you have anyone with a medical situation?

No.

Any weapons such as tactical explosives, firearms, or long, double-edged knives onboard? Over.

Sheridan’s breath quickened. Ames shrugged. He hadn’t expected the question either.

Negative, no weapons, Sheridan said.

"Stand by, Betelgeuse." A soft thump indicated the operator had silenced her transmitter.

Sheridan sighed and reviewed the crew’s faces. They wore puzzled expressions.

We’re civilians, not soldiers, the pilot said. Why would they ask if we have weapons?

For the same reason you checked your guns with Wyatt Earp when you rode into Tombstone, Ames noted with a chuckle.

Sheridan covered his mic so the people on the flotilla couldn’t hear him. The flotilla isn’t Tombstone, Mr. Ames. There must have been a misunderstanding. Someone brought incendiary devices for excavation on the Moon and didn’t tell anyone—something like that.

Maybe she can tell us, the pilot suggested.

Sheridan uncovered his mic. FL41, your last question… Is there a problem we should know about? Over.

The operator came back on. Just standard procedure to ask, Mr. Sheridan. You’re not the first to comment on it.

Whose procedure, I wonder? Ames thought aloud.

Sheridan shrugged. None of them knew much about the structure of civil order on the flotilla. Sheridan had assumed it wasn’t necessary, for the same reason that a group of boys didn’t formalize the rules of a game before they started. It was best to allow order to spawn organically and let honor and peer pressure hold everyone accountable.

The operator spoke. Clearance to dock granted, Betelgeuse. Leave this channel open and clear so we can reach you at any time. We’ll be at perigee in…

Sixteen minutes, 11 seconds, Sheridan said, reading the telemetry data off the longwave receiver.

Correct. Please observe a 1-meter per second relative speed limit within 1 klick of the flotilla. Over.

Got that? Sheridan asked. The pilot and navigator nodded. Sheridan glanced at Ames. Am I missing anything?

Expectations for the boarding party, Ames whispered.

Sheridan sucked in a breath. Acknowledged, FL41. Will you have a boarding party ready when we dock? Over.

One step at a time, Mr. Sheridan. We’ll go over it when you’re inside the perimeter. Over.

"Thank you, FL41. Betelgeuse out. He flipped his headset to Ames. Yes, thank you very much, you mindless apparatchik."

What do you make of that? the navigator asked, clasping his hands behind his head. They ask us for everything but our cholesterol levels, then clam up when we ask them something.

I don’t know, Reuben, Sheridan said, rubbing the pad of his thumb over his stubbled chin. It wasn’t the warm reception I was expecting, that’s for sure.

Maybe they’re peeved because we’re late, the pilot said.

Ames cleared his throat. Mr. Sheridan, if I may, I’d like to talk to you about the boarding party—

Sheridan interrupted him. One step at a time, Mr. Ames. Didn’t you hear her? He addressed the pilot. Are the systems checks complete, Ashwin?

Yes, Mr. Sheridan, the pilot said. He had a high forehead and earnest features to go with a complete lack of pretense. We don’t have a reading on the fuel levels, but that’s expected when you’re carrying liquid propellants under nominal pressure in zero gee. A sustained thrust before we fire the engines should settle the fluids in the tanks and give us a reading.

Sheridan blinked. He disliked receiving more information than he asked for. Can we assume we have enough fuel, Ashwin?

Yes sir, guaranteed.

Good. Mr. Ames, move non-essential personnel down to the torus, please.

Including myself, Mr. Sheridan? Ames asked.

Sheridan considered his subordinate. Had he been too harsh? Yes, he had been too harsh.

No, he said. Join us in the cockpit for the burn, and we can have that talk you asked for.

***

Ames jacked into the public address circuit. His voice boomed throughout the ship as he spoke into the mic.

All hands, clear the flight deck. Cockpit crew only on the flight deck. Main engines set to fire in… He clocked the telemetry data. …14 minutes. Repair to quarters, secure loose items, and strap in. I repeat, secure loose items and strap in. Fourteen minutes until main engines fire.

He put the headset down and flipped a switch on the console. Ultraviolet light flooded all compartments on the ship.

Come on, Jeremiah. Come on, Connor. Ames grabbed the younger boy by the arm.

Dad, it’s my turn! Jeremiah whined, fighting Ames’s grip and reaching for the hologram.

Later, son, Ames said firmly. You’ll have time to play games after we dock.

They moved aft toward the torus ladder, using low, round rungs placed in the bulkhead to maneuver their bodies in zero gee. Jeremiah yanked his arm away from his father and floated headfirst through an open hatch set in a revolving circular track. Halfway down the shaft the boy tucked in his legs, grabbed the ladder, and somersaulted using his own momentum, a trick the other children had shown him.

Ames started down the ladder feet first, feeling more of his weight with each step. He landed on both feet in the bottom of the torus shaft, which uncoincidentally due to the torus’s revolution had a centripetal force equivalent to the Moon’s gravity. It would be brought to a stop soon, as the Betelgeuse needed a stable center of mass before firing its main engines.

Ames’s head swam, his inner ear slow to react to the altered state of gravity. He held onto the ladder for a moment, waiting for the sensation to pass, then followed his son through the clockwise hatch.

The torus included a lounge, parlor, kitchen mess, maintenance modules, and separate suites for the crew, their families, and Sheridan’s large family. All told they had more children than they had crew. It was unlike any combination of personnel in Ames’s experience. For him, it added to the pressure on him to succeed. These kids, and their parents, were going to be the first people to live off-world, to make a way for future generations to follow.

Ames squinted under the caution lights, which lent everyone’s green flight suits a neon outline. The crew and their spouses were securing the quarters for the orbital burn. Some helped the smaller children strap in. A family that had been eating at the mess table stowed their plates and utensils in the washbasin.

He stooped low to speak in his Jeremiah’s ear. Don’t cause any trouble.

Yeah, yeah.

Jeremiah skipped across the concave floor to join the other young children. Ames watched him strap in next to his big sister, then surveyed the rest of the scene. Satisfied things were in order, he climbed back up the ladder.

He joined the pilot, navigator, and Sheridan as the only people left on the flight deck. Behind the main console and the flight instrument panel were four chairs arranged like the four corners of a square. The pilot and navigator occupied the two chairs in front. Ames buckled into the chair next to Sheridan.

They’re ready, he said.

Excellent, said the navigator, Reuben. He was thin and white-haired, and although he was the ship’s oldest passenger, he had a youthful personality that meshed well with Ashwin’s, his son-in-law. They had been flying commercially together for many years.

Stop and lock the torus, Ashwin said.

Reuben got on the PA circuit. Torus stop in 10 seconds. All hands brace.

On my mark, 4 minutes, 30 seconds till main engine burn, Ashwin said. Two, one—mark. Delta minus 2,306 meters per second. Turbopump 2 in engine 2 green on electric and hydraulic.

Reuben smirked. Our problem child may have found religion.

One-hundred-twenty percent Earth gravity of acceleration sound good to you? Ashwin asked.

One point two gee, sounds good to me, Reuben said in a lilting voice. His eyes flitted up in their sockets as he made the calculations in his head. What’s that, Ash, 200 seconds to match speed with the flotilla?

One-ninety-six, but what’s 4 seconds between friends?

Could be a crashed ship and a whole lot of dead people, Ames cracked.

Reuben laughed. Three minutes, 30 seconds.

Behind them, the heavy gears of the torus mating assembly clanged solidly against each other until the hatch was still.

Torus stopped and locked, Ashwin.

Very well.

As they continued to chatter, Sheridan stared forward, not listening but deep in thought, tapping his feet on the floor.

What were you saying, Ames?

Ames twisted in his seat to face Sheridan. My guess is at some point they’ll isolate the crew to a single part of the ship while they inspect it. I want to stay with them when they do.

Sheridan smirked. Why? Don’t you trust them?

No less than I trust anyone else on a contract. We’re in a fluid operational environment now. Circumstances can change, and people’s objectives with them. He pointed at the radio receiver. The operator’s questions prove it. Don’t take for granted that our interests and theirs align perfectly. They’ll surely make the same assumption about us.

I’ve known the leaders on this expedition for most of my career, Mr. Ames. We’ve been working together for years to make this happen. We have the same goal. All of us.

Ames nodded slowly. I’m asking you to prepare for the possibility that may not be the case all of the time.

Sheridan pinched the bridge of his nose, a quirk that was triggered when something upset or frustrated him. On any given day that could be a number of things, so Ames didn’t worry himself about it.

I hired you for your expertise in these matters, for my strengths lie elsewhere, Sheridan acquiesced, his voice measured. Request granted.

Thank you.

Two minutes, Reuben announced. But for the constant hum of the electronics, the flight deck was quiet. There was nothing to do for the moment but wait.

When we’re free of our connections to Earth, hopefully we’ll dispose of that part of our nature, Sheridan said pensively.

Which part? Ames asked.

The fighting, Mr. Ames. The conflict. We’ve watched it play out our entire lives. Nations, tribes, religions, ethnic groups. He jabbed a finger emphatically into his armrest. History has been the same wars repeated by different players since the beginning of time. To break with the past, to evolve as a species into something better… that would be a welcome change.

It was the kind of sentiment Ames expected to hear from someone who had been raised in the mansions and private schools of the global bourgeoisie.

You’re talking about the survival instinct, Mr. Sheridan. I don’t see how we evolve past that without dying out.

That’s because you lack vision. Sheridan smiled ruefully and looked away. But I don’t blame you for that.

Ames bit his tongue. Sheridan had spent his whole life chasing after the dreams of his youth, failing and succeeding—mostly succeeding—achieving what so many couldn’t do, things that were supposed to be impossible. Despite being similar in age, in that moment he felt much younger than his boss. Or was it older? Sheridan retained much of the youthful idealism that Ames had lost in 24 years in the Service.

Look alive. Thirty seconds until main engine burn, Ashwin said over the PA circuit. Directional thrusters, Reuben. Forward 20 percent.

A force like an invisible hand pushed them gently into their seats. Ashwin focused on the instruments in front of him.

Fifteen seconds, Ash, Reuben said, eying the countdown clock.

Oxidizer level nominal. Same on fuel, Ashwin relayed. Open coaxial valves.

Reuben waited a beat. Lines pressurized.

Ashwin leaned forward and placed his hands over two large control knobs. Four, three, two…

They felt every bit of their weight—and then some—as Ashwin throttled the turbopumps from stationary to thousands of revolutions per minute. The hydrazine mixed with oxidizer in each engine’s combustion chamber, igniting instantly. A dull roar like a distant waterfall vibrated the hull. The distal weight of the torus caused the lateral and aft support struts to groan. The spacecraft, 42 meters from stem to stern, actually shrank a few centimeters, as its 450-tonne bulk settled on top of the colossal force propelling it mercilessly forward.

Ashwin spoke over the din of the engines. Directional thruster cutoff.

Done, Reuben said.

A dial indicating their relative velocity fell rapidly from 2,300 meters per second. The ship’s guidance computer had control now.

Plus 15 seconds. Board’s green, Ashwin said, reviewing the flight instruments. Little heat in the combustion chamber on engine 1. Coolant flow is steady.

A sharp clank on the bulkhead caused their heads to snap upward. What was that? Reuben croaked.

A small, dark object like a hockey puck caromed past them, pulled down the ship’s long axis by the gravity of the burn.

It’s the hologram the boys were playing with, Ames said.

Sheridan cleared his throat, his face reddening. Ashwin and Reuben chuckled and faced forward to monitor the burn.

In the interval, a voice came through the receiver, different than the one before: male, Oriental, and idiosyncratic. "Ahoy, Betelgeuse! That’s a beautiful ship you have there, I must say. The person who built her should be commended. Over."

Sheridan recognized the voice. He reached across his body and took a headset off the main console.

Credit in this case goes to the man who commissioned her. The ship builder was out of his depth.

The man cackled. I suppose my aversion to turning down a challenge isn’t the virtue I thought it was.

Sheridan laughed. How are you, Zeke? Are you having much fun out here without me?

I wouldn’t dream of it! It has been hard, though, on account of you all being the last ones to arrive at this—what do you call it?—shindig.

Zeke, it’s not a ‘shindig’ until I show up.

Okay, Wayne. There was a smattering of background noise, indistinct voices talking over each other.

They’re kicking me off the air. I’m glad you’re here finally. Find me when you come aboard. There’s a lot to talk about.

I will. Sheridan looked askance at Ames with a smug air, as if the friendly call proved the excess of Ames’ vigilance.

One-hundred-fifty seconds, Ashwin called out. Engine 1’s looking better. Yellow condition on turbopump 2, engine 2. Cavitation’s back.

Reuben looked over the gauges. It’s within tolerance.

Just, Ashwin said, shaking his head.

Calm down. We’ll get it looked at after we dock. Reuben’s head snapped forward. Hey, get ready! Engine stop in 6 seconds! Three, two, one—

Oxidizer stop, fuel stop, nitrogen purge, Ashwin narrated as his hands moved nimbly over the flight controls. He counted out two beats, allowing the nitrogen gas to flush out the remains of the volatile propellants and cool the engine. Idling turbopumps, nitrogen stop.

The rattling of the hull dissipated, restoring the ship’s regular static hum to dominance. They buoyed in their restraints as their velocity plateaued.

New delta plus 4.5 meters per second, Ashwin reported.

Tack us toward the flotilla, Sheridan said. Slowly.

Ames and Sheridan unbuckled their restraints, while Ashwin and Reuben remained seated. Ames turned off the caution lights, which brought the pale yellow fluorescents up to full brightness. The men rubbed their eyes.

"FL41 to Betelgeuse, do you read?" It was the same operator as before, all business.

Go ahead, Sheridan said.

"Got your docking procedures, Betelgeuse. Come round to 5.1 degrees pitch, 218.8 degrees yaw. Use manual thrust, no more than a meter per second. Dock at androgynous lock two—that’s alpha 2—next to the homing beacon, center-left of the station. Over."

I need a reference plane, Reuben said, punching the numbers in the guidance computer.

What reference plane are you using, FL41? Sheridan asked.

There was a delay in her response. "Sorry, Betelgeuse. I haven’t guided a ship into port in so long that I had to ask a colleague. Use the plane of the ecliptic for zero degrees roll and pitch. Over."

Reuben scrunched his aged face, then entered a few more numbers in the guidance computer and leaned back in his chair. The directional thrusters fired and the stars in the viewing window shifted. The flotilla now filled the window. Sidelit by the Sun, it was a mass of diverse structures grafted onto an asymmetrical, three-dimensional grid. It looked misshapen, off-kilter; the 14 other ships were docked on the edges, leaving the center mostly hollow.

We see it, Sheridan said to the operator, looking through the camera’s viewfinder again.

He passed the camera to Ashwin, who passed it to Ames after he’d had his fill. At 75x magnification, the details were too much to take in. Red and white navigation lights glittered across the huge structure. An antenna array stuck out near the north edge. Closer to the middle reared a huge shape like a piston. A nodule stood on the end of the piston, with A2 stenciled on the side.

After hard dock, a cleaning crew will board you to sanitize the ship, the operator said. When they’re done, a medical team will administer vaccinations. Over.

Ames released the camera, letting it drift in zero gee, and heaved a sigh.

That won’t be necessary, Sheridan said, giving Ames an apprehensive look. All our shots are up to date.

It’s for your own health, as well as the health of the people on the flotilla, she persisted. In such tight quarters, it wouldn’t take long for a bug to get around and infect everyone.

No kidding, Ames thought. That wasn’t in dispute. What was in dispute was the Betelgeuse’s autonomy, which their mission partners clearly had a more relaxed attitude about.

To avoid raising a ruckus, Sheridan yielded. Okay. Also I’d like to put in a service request for someone to look at our number two engine.

I’ll add your request to the queue, but it’ll take awhile.

Nothing I can do about that, is there? Anything else?

That’s all. We’ll see you soon.

"Betelgeuse out. Sheridan removed the headset and plucked his camera out of the air. You’re not the trusting type, are you, Mr. Ames?"

Trust is the most valuable currency, Ames said. He rolled his heavy shoulders, willing the tension to leave his body.

Take it easy, Sheridan said, turning his gaze to the viewing window. We’re one team now. And these people are going to be the last friends you make.

Ames had expected the lines among the crews to blur on this expedition, especially once they settled on the Moon. No single crew could specialize in everything. They would have to meld into one.

Until that time, there needed to be some degree of separation and accountability. It frustrated him that Sheridan assumed they had already reached that point.

How long before we dock? Sheridan asked.

Just a few minutes, Ashwin said, peering down past his feet through a small window. On the other side of the window was an angled mirror that gave an unobstructed view through the center of the docking mech in the nose.

Range 500 meters, Reuben said. Watch your speed, Ash. She told us to keep it under a meter per second.

Ames scoffed. What’s she gonna do, ticket us?

Ashwin flicked his wrist, giving the directional thrusters a spurt, to slow their approach.

Activating Soft Capture System, Reuben announced. He flexed his fingers around a joystick on the dashboard, twisting it left, then right. Full range of motion. You cast the bait, Ash, and I’ll reel her in.

***

Sheridan watched the flotilla slowly, ever so slowly, come closer, its knobs, spires, and spiny modules creeping toward the Betelgeuse like the poison-barbed tendrils of a Portuguese man o’ war—and they were its prey. Sheridan had been stung once by a man o’ war while on his father’s yacht in the Bay of Biscay. The raised lines they left on your skin lasted longer than the burns they inflicted. That’s so you won’t forget, so you won’t repeat the same mistake, his dad had said.

I’ll clear the forward airlock, Sheridan said.

A portal in the floor behind them led into a long, narrow passageway called the vestibule. At the end of the vestibule was the forward air lock, which joined to the docking mech in the ship’s nose. Another, shorter vestibule and airlock were behind the torus mating assembly; that airlock opened into the airless cargo bay.

In the forward airlock, Sheridan re-stowed the pressure suits and rebreather rigs that had come free during the burn and hermetically sealed the inner hatch. It took less than a minute to evacuate the 600-millibar atmosphere out of the chamber, which was standard throughout the ship. It was equivalent to living at 4,200 meters altitude on Earth, roughly the height of the Tibetan Plateau. What the air lacked in density it made up for in oxygen richness. The ratio of nitrogen to oxygen was 2:1 instead of Earth’s normal 4:1.

The tip of docking port, barely a meter across, came into focus. Sheridan chewed his lower lip. He should have been happy to make it this far, but the endgame of the expedition was still a long way off. The Moon colony was the subject of stories that captured his imagination as a boy. Soon, it would become reality. He knew he needed rest, but there were a thousand details that needed sorting, starting with the deconstruction of the flotilla itself. All of its parts were designed for reuse in some form or fashion as part of the colony.

One hundred meters, Reuben called out.

Sheridan returned to the flight deck. When we soft dock, I want you two to go to your quarters and stay there until it’s time to come out.

Yes sir, Reuben said.

Ashwin nodded. He hadn’t blinked since slowing the ship’s advance to a half-meter per second. He stared down through the small window between his feet, lining up the docking mech with the center of the docking port.

Forty meters, Reuben said. You’re drifting up, Ash. Adjust your pitch point-four degrees down.

Okay.

Parts of the flotilla moved past the viewing window, sporadic windows giving off circles of striking light. The nearest spacecraft loomed off the starboard side, shorter and stouter than the Betelgeuse, which wasn’t surprising, considering the sleek aesthetic Sheridan was aiming for.

Sheridan’s eyes were glued to the window. The docking port was so close now that it was obscured by the ship’s tapered nose. Fifteen meters, Ash. Looking good.

Ashwin nudged the joystick, giving the thrusters a quarter-second burst to slow the ship down even more. The sight post bisected the lock perfectly.

Discharging static buildup, Reuben said.

A bolt of electricity arced between metal rods on the flotilla and Betelgeuse. The lights on the ship dimmed for an instant, then came back up to full brightness.

Sheridan reminded himself to breathe, and filled his lungs with air.

Four meters, 3 meters, 2…

The shrill screech of metal on metal came from the nose of the ship. Ashwin gave the thrusters a final spurt. The scraping sound ended anti-climactically with a weak thud. Reuben pulled a lever next to the joystick to latch the SCS legs into place.

Soft capture, Reuben said.

They waited a moment, listening for any sound that could be the telltale sign of a failure. A small, green light on the control panel lit up.

We have a seal, Reuben declared.

Ashwin exhaled and wetted his dried-out eyes. Smooth like butter.

Reuben clapped him on the shoulder. Rich people eat butter, Ash. For us it’s margarine.

For you two, I’ll open my stores, Sheridan said jovially.

Ashwin and Reuben unbuckled their restraints and went down the ladder, leaving Ames and Sheridan in the cockpit. It was quiet once again.

I’ll do the talking, Sheridan said.

He led the way into the vestibule and entered the command to pressurize the airlock. The compressor motor spun up and air rushed in, silently at first, then with a faint whir.

On the far side of the airlock, the sliding doors in the docking mech retracted. The cleaning crew, dressed in full-body nylon suits, entered laboriously through the narrow portal, three, four, five of them. They carried what looked like a full laundry bag and a bottle of chemical cleaning fluid. One of them waved through the porthole-hole style window in the inner door.

Sheridan returned the gesture. He smoothed the front of his green polyester flight suit and checked Ames’s feet to see where he stood, then positioned himself half a step in front.

The inner door budged open, and a short hiss of air signaled the equalization of pressure between the spacecrafts. The cleaning crew emerged from the airlock and gathered in the end of the vestibule.

Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sheridan, the one in front said. The team leader. He had a broad Australian accent, discernible through his breathing filter.

Sheridan nodded. It occurred to him he could parlay his reputation to speed things along. He peered in the man’s clear faceplate. Have we met before?

No sir, I think I would remember.

What’s your name?

Shaun.

Sheridan smiled congenially. Shaun, our first contact. He shook the team leader’s hand, his fingers unable to circumscribe Shaun’s thick gloves.

Welcome to the flotilla, sir.

Thank you. Sheridan clapped his hands and rubbed them together vigorously, an important man eager to get to work. I’m sure you’d like to get started. With your blessing, I’ll take my leave now so I can get out of your way.

The cleaning crew started to part for him, but Shaun raised a hand.

Hold on. Sorry, Mr. Sheridan, but you have to be vaccinated before you go onboard, and that can’t happen until we sanitize the flight deck.

Ah, Sheridan said. That won’t take long, will it? We’re the last ones here and there’s a great many things to do.

Of course we’ll work as quickly as we can, Mr. Sheridan. As you know, swabbing a ship this size can take up to 4 hours.

Of course, Sheridan said, his smile fading into a crooked smirk. He was already thinking of what he could busy himself with while he waited with the rest of the crew. As usual, sleep was the furthest thing from his mind.

He nodded in Ames’s direction. Colonel Ames here would like to be present while you’re onboard, if you have no objection.

Shaun registered at Ames’s bulky figure. He faltered, and he chose his words carefully. No objection, Mr. Sheridan. May I ask why?

Security protocol, Ames said, coming forward so he stood shoulder to shoulder with Sheridan. Together they filled the vestibule.

Not that I’m accusing you, but did you think we’d willingly let you have your run of the ship while we backed ourselves into a corner?

All the others did. We’re not adversaries, Colonel Ames.

It would give me peace of mind, Ames said.

Shaun dithered, as if weighing their request against some other silent argument in his mind.

He doesn’t bite, although he can be a bit gruff, Sheridan said smoothly. Colonel Ames is the ranking member of my staff. I take his recommendations seriously.

Shaun looked at his team. Anyone have a problem with that? The others murmured in the negative. Right, then, he said, turning back to face him and Ames.

"I’ve moved the rest