Short Story: The Girl Who Blew Up The Moon

original ficion by  Robbie Knight
copywrite 2019

The Girl Who Blew Up the Moon

By Robbie Knight

Home is just a dot, she thinks, craning her neck to look out the back portal at Mars. Then she laughs a dark laugh. Home.  She turns back to the console and looks through the front window and down. 

This was home once, this little pile of half-consolidated rubble they call Phobos. Her mother calls it The Moon, even though there are two zipping around Mars, and they’re no more than ugly little rocks caught in slowly dying orbits.

She looks into the approaching Limtoc crater; same old bunch of receiver dishes and the little cluster of pockmarked and dusted domes. It’s sad compared to when she was a little kid and it was a shining, slick new installation. Now it’s dead under a ghostly coating of crumbly gray. Moon dust and dark memories.

She flicks the remote life support systems switch to get air and heat going; it won’t take long for the little installation to be habitable. She steers the pod carefully down into Limtoc. Landing on this 15 kilometer-diameter zooming rock with no gravity is just about physics. The bottom of the pod weighs nine times more than the top, so the bottom-heavy mini-vehicle settles easily. Also, she remembers how to land. There’s a bitter feeling in it.

She sends the small hoverbot out to hook a line through the embedded iron handholds that punctuate the rugged surface of Phobos. The staple shapes march in criss-crossing lines as far as the eye can see, and beyond. She hooks her tether clip onto the line and walks carefully on the uneven surface, making sure one foot is always on the rock as she carries the bag of equipment to the right spot. Her wrist unit lights up when she reaches it. She rechecks her orientation, then pulls the hand-sized minerbots from the bag and clicks each on. She has preprogrammed them so they set right to work, anchoring themselves and beginning to laser out the rim of the narrow hole that will go all the way to the center of the moon. Their little bug-like bodies are now a blur as they spin and shoot blue bursts. She checks her wrist unit again to verify the bot settings. It will only take an hour, if that. 

She checks the exact time again. Time is important, because she wants the moon to shatter during the wedding.

She heads back for the complex, the tether clip sliding along the polymer-shielded fiber line. When she sees the greenhouse her guts twist and sink, as she knew they would, but then she freezes. She takes a breath. Because no one would have left the lights on. 

They flicker, then go black.

It happens in a flash, so quickly that she’s not sure it happened at all. Was it just a glitch as the life support systems came on? Was it a stray reflection in her helmet?

She’s always had trouble trusting herself. It’s hard when no one believes you about things. It makes you feel like you’ve floated off out of atmo, untethered; all your feelings and your knowledge, all the messages from your gut and your heart and your brain meaningless to everyone else. Ungrounded and unfounded. No grounds for accusation. Feelings unfounded. Just shut up. Quit your whining. It didn’t happen. And then her mother’s voice: “He was so good to you!”

Rage is juicing through her chest. Her breath in her ears is unsteady. She takes a moment to swallow and clamp down on it all. Clamp down, she had learned to do that. The old astronaut saying was: “There’s no problem so bad that you can’t make it worse.” Her mother always added, “And feelings make everything worse.” Focus, she tells herself.

She shrugs off the equipment bag in the entry bay, checks the power panel to make sure reads are in the green, then enters the complex. She lifts the helmet and climbs out of her hard suit, hanging it up. She dry-scrubs her face with her palms and then rakes her fingers through her short, thick black hair, blows her nose, tucks the silk back into her pocket. The rush of air smells of dust but also moist soil, which can’t be right. Maybe there’s a leak somewhere. Her feet ache momentarily as the grav-magnifier kicks in, with that soft vibration pulling her down, her spine undulating into position as she puts weight on her feet for the first time in hours. The suit on the hook sags, her equipment bag flattens on the floor. She shakes her limbs and her feet, taking a moment for the leaden sensation to wear off, for the vertigo to settle. Then her empty stomach complains. She was too amped for breakfast before she left. But why eat? She came here to die.

This installation was only designed for a small staff of eight. When she had lived here, with her father and mother and uncle and his wife, there was room and time for privacy. Too much privacy.

She sets the equipment bag on the floor and stands in the common room for a time, staring into nothing. With a fingertip she writes in caps in the gritty dust on the table: 

SAY GOODBYE TO YOUR MOON 

She holds up her wrist unit to get a rough video, walking around the table so that it will take a moment or two for the words to make sense to them when they watch it, then lingers the camera unsteadily on the words. She swallows and stands very still for a time. She taps the screen, sending the file.

Suddenly she wants to play. Just a few minutes to warm up, she tells herself. 

She lifts the electric cello case from the equipment bag. She settles on a chair, her butt slipping around in the dust. Gripping the neck and the bow, she leans into the sound. The wall speakers pick up the signal and begin broadcasting the music through the entire complex. Her music is echoing back to her from every room, the delays of the notes eerie and haunting as they bounce from the greenhouse, the bunks, the engine room, the uplink center, the storage rooms, the halls. 

Shubert’s Death and the Maiden was written for a quartet, but she plays it pitched down, in the darkest notes she could transpose it to. The first jarring, dreadful strains sound like the panic of one being hunted, the pounding terror of the prey. She plays on allegro, through the loping, more cheerful passages and back into dread and horror and loss and sorrow. She’s all in the music now and memories from the greenhouse are nudging at her mind. She shakes them off. Tears are tumbling down the sides of her nose and making little spots on the red wood of the cello, darker red spots like blood, as she rocks in time. Another memory slaps her mind. She drops her bow; it clatters on the floor.

From the far end of the hallway, sniffling.

She gasps and jumps up, gripping her cello. She slides it onto the table, smearing the words in the dust. She creeps toward the hallway.

She notices now that the floor is clean. She turns and glances back at the angled walls of the common room. The windows are coated with dust like the table, like other objects, yet the floor is gleaming. So is the floor in the hallway. As she steps onto the hall floor the lights blink on automatically. 

Another sniff, from the storage area just around the corner.

“Hey!” she yells, half affronted, half fearful. 

A door slides shut. Though it’s been years, she knows the sound of every door in the complex. It was the door to the storage rooms. She freezes, wanting a weapon and remembering that the weapons are all in storage.

Anger feels better than fear. She grabs anger and charges on with it, feeding on outrage, marching into the hall. But then she stops. The walls are tighter than she remembers and…lumpy? No. They are covered in sculptures.

Faces emerge from the walls, familiar faces. For a moment, she forgets her mission. These are made from simple paste and food wrappers, but they are accurate to every feature. They are all sculptures of her own face. They must have come from pictures left behind on a hard drive left behind somewhere around here, or-her insides recoil-maybe from her uncle’s office. There’s one of her grinning; that’s from the day she got her first sitar and had just played her first notes. There’s one of her bent in concentration, with a strand of her then-long hair framing her cheek as she played the hammer dulcimer for a live broadcast. She’s been sculpted in moments of joy and unselfconsciousness.

She recognizes yet another of her sculpted faces from the picture with her uncle, before it happened. How happy she had been. How she had trusted him. Her gut flips over. The rage is back. How dare someone do this. This is a violation. She never gave her permission.

“Whoever in both hells you are you can’t be here! This is a private installation!” She bangs on the door. “Get out here!”

And then what? she wonders. 

The lock on the storage door pops. The door slides open by a few centimeters.

“Tea?” says an appealingly deep and soft man’s voice. A slip of scent, the buttery-tang of the brew, meets her nose. Her stomach growls like a small, angry animal.

She opens the door slowly, standing back. The storage room is in shadow. A small figure, half her height, wearing a long coat over a tunic and a woven fiber cap, is moving toward her. 

The hand offering the tea is covered in skin tags. It almost looks to be made of layers of candle drippings. The face emerges from shadow and it’s also covered in layers of cascading tags. His left eyelid is weighed down at the outer corner with an especially large lump of skin, giving his face a tinge of sadness. His eyes are huge and dark, not silver like her own. His are beautiful, tender, night-sky Earth eyes.

“You can’t catch it and there’s nothing in the cup but tea,” he says, with a cold edge.

She takes the cup, watching her skin brush his. It feels like warm, soft human skin, not strange at all. He turns away.

She stands still, her hand still stretched out awkwardly, as the thoughts follow one after the other. What a perfect place to be if you’re sick of people treating you like a monster, she thinks. I bet he just wants to be away from people. I bet he’s had a shit life.

She wants to apologize somehow. She sips the tea, which is very good, and which makes her realize how hungry she is. She remembers again: but I’m going to die now anyway. Then another thought, out loud:

“You made those sculptures.”

“And?”

“You had no right to.”

After a long moment he says, “Well, I wasn’t expecting you.”

She pauses, not having expected that answer. “This installation has been sold. Well, stolen, really.” 

“That so?”

“And you need to get out of here.”

“I thought you were here to do some recording.”

“No. Recording? Why did you think-”

“Pretty amazing solo rendition of Death and the Maiden. I’ve never heard anything like it. It got to me.”

Her heart leaps. It’s been a long time since anyone told her they liked her music. Since the broadcast performances, before her Dad got sick. Before he died and left her alone with that woman called Mother and the uncle who should be dying slowly of hypothermia and radiation poisoning in the Martian desert, if karma worked. But karma doesn’t work.

“I’m going to blow it up. All of it. I came here to blow up this whole moon.”

“How can I help?”

She tries to speak again and stumbles. She begins to explain. “You need to get out of here.”

“You don’t know what I need.” He’s playing with her, she feels it, but not like a predator. He’s watching her like a professor, like someone who wants to see what her next thoughts will be. It’s infuriating, but also reassuring. His liquid dark eyes hold hers for a moment. She looks away, around the room. There are curving, intricate shapes in the shadows.

“But why would you want to die here?” she says, then winces, biting her lip. Maybe she knows why. Maybe that was a stupid thing to say. But why is she caring what she says?

“You first,” he says, “Since you’re the one blowing it up. Why do you?”

They stare at each other. Her stomach growls again.

“I made bread. Hold on,” he says.

“No. I-there’s no reason-”

“To die hungry?” 

Put like that, it silenced her. Why should she die hungry? Why should she follow any rules anymore? 

Her eyes have gotten used to the dimness. She looks around the storage room, which is a small habitat now. He’s set up a makeshift kitchen, seating area, dining area, all from supply boxes. Everything is neat, but also pleasingly arranged. The arched shapes are sculptures, but not faces. They are all of living nature: branches of bristlecone pine populated with  ravens in various poses, a vixen and her pups in a sand cave, a meadow of trenchgrass with wandering sheep. There’s another in progress on the far wall, a sort of armature in the process of being covered with layers of glue holding on food wrappers. He’s filled this old place with art. He’s brilliantly talented. Any of these pieces would go for top yen on Mars.

He motions her to sit at the table made of boxes, sliding a plate to her. The bread is crispy-hot and rips open fluffy and steaming; he’s made it with a restored heirloom Hopi blue corn, which contains nearly every nutrient. It shimmers with flavor. She wipes the grease off her lip, her insides purring contentment. Then she remembers the bots, which are boring a hole to the center of the moon, and her stomach lurches again. She shouldn’t have eaten. It’s putting her off the mission.

She stands. “You can take my pod back home. Get off this moon. I’m on a schedule.”

“No.” He gazes up at her.

“Do you think I don’t mean it?” She looks down at the plate and remembers her manners. “Thank you.” It all feels ridiculous. Her plans are falling apart. She marches out of the room, back down the hall. She pauses, looking again at the exquisite renditions of her own face. Her feet won’t move.

These can’t just be destroyed, her heart is shouting, you can’t just destroy art, especially masterful art. And he’s clearly a very advanced artist. To kill him, to destroy this beauty he created, goes against everything she cherishes in life. No one else in her family is an artist, and they don’t understand the value of it. It’s why she went away to school, to be surrounded by people who understand the importance of art, of music. It’s all that matters to her. She’s crying again, in rage.

“Why did you do this?” There’s no answer. She marches back down the hall, past the supply rooms, toward the greenhouse. She’s not even sure why.

But when she reaches the hall to the greenhouse, she knows. She feels numb, suddenly. Not angry, not sad. She feels nothing. She presses her palm on the wall panel; the lights flicker on. Of course, he’s been keeping it functional. It’s full of rows and rows of tomatoes and corn and amaranth and other crops. He’s been doing well here, all by himself, away from people. He probably hates people. I hate them, too. Well, not everyone, mainly just-

Now the feeling returns. She can see her uncle clear and sharp, grinning from inside the greenhouse with what she thinks will be another fun prank or joke or flower he grew. She’d run inside, run to him, climb on his lap-

Her fists are tight, her front teeth sunk into her lower lip.

“What are you waiting for?” he says from behind her, startling her. She doesn’t answer him.

“Why not play the rest of Death and The Maiden? Just play it and then go home. Whatever it is that got you into your little teenage snit, it’s going to get better. Almost everything does. Not my skin, of course, or my size. You know how this kind of thing happens, with gene modifications. And then there’s just nothing to be done. I’m stuck in this little monstrous body. But you’re not stuck, you-”

“What do you know about me? You don’t know anything.”

“I know you’re young. It will get better.”

“Once things happen they can’t un-happen.”

“You’ll get over whatever it is.”

She turns on him, shoulders hunched. She takes two steps towards him; he backs off, stumbling slightly.

“That’s what people say when they think you’re less than a person. That whatever they did to you, you’ll get over it, because you don’t matter, your feelings don’t matter. I bet people have said some horrible things to you, really horrible things. And they got away with it. And you have to remember every horrible word. Are you over it?”

He’s steadied himself. “Pretty much.”

“Well, good for you. Don’t tell me my life because you don’t know anything. You don’t know what he did!”

His eyes are locked on hers. He’s become very serious, his voice low and soft. “What-what who did…?” his voice trails off.

She knows she can’t go in the greenhouse. She can’t go a lot of places, because of the shame that looms and the fear that creeps after her everywhere. She can’t stand to be close with anyone. She doesn’t trust anyone. So many things in her life were ruined, probably forever. And now her mother’s voice, again, in that whining denial, He was so good to you!

“You want to go get in the pod and get out of here,” she says.

“What happened in there?” his voice is just above a whisper.

“None of your business!” she bellows. She starts for the hall, then for the greenhouse, then she simply sits on the floor. She’s trapped. 

After several minutes he sits beside her. He puts a hand on her arm. His hand is broad and warm and gentle.

“You’ve ruined everything,” she says.

“I told you. I wasn’t expecting you. Or anyone.”

“They think they’re coming back here. My mother and him. She’s marrying him. She knows what he did to me, and she’s marrying him. My Dad died less than a year ago. And they think they’re going to come here and be all happy.”

After a long silence he says, “Your mother knew?”

“She denies it. Yeah, she knew. She made it easy for him.”

“And they’re going to get married and live here.”

“Well, they think they are.”

He’s nodding, or rocking; she can feel the motion through his hand. She looks up. His eyes pierce hers.

“But,” he says, “Why do you have to die?”

“I was…I mean-”

“You’d definitely make a point, I’ll give you that. But then you’ve destroyed you. And you didn’t do anything wrong. You’re just a kid,” he catches her expression and revises, “I mean…you’re so young. Whatever you want to do to this installation, or this moon, I understand. But there’s no point in you dying. It’s a waste.”

“It’s better than prison.”

“You’re a young offender. You won’t get life, just a couple years of boring therapy. And there’s an amnesty program, if you want to apply for-”

“There are minerbots on the way to the center of this moon right now. Then I’m going to drop a speaker down the hole and-”

“Ah. Cavitation,” he says. “The oscillations will shatter it apart. Like Tesla’s earthquake machine, but with your music.” He looks at her for a long moment. “You got style. Shame to destroy that.”

She’s overcome by weariness. She was worried about being a coward, not completing her mission because of faintness of heart. But now it’s just become tiresome. It’s too much to think about and she’s longing for a nap. “I’m so tired,” she says.

“So, don’t do it.”

She grits her teeth. “I have to do it. I sent video telling them I was already doing it. And the bots are…” she checks her wrist unit, “Done in about a half hour.” She stands, now panicking. “But your sculptures.”

He laughs. “You don’t think I laser scan my work?”

“There’s images of me. I mean…”

“Oh, those. Well, tell you what. You own the rights if you come back with me.”

“It’s the wedding today.”

“Perfect. Let’s run the specs. Will you need to distort the sound to find the right frequency to start oscillations? Or did you-”

“I already programmed the speaker to find the frequency. But I don’t know how this will all come apart, or how long it will take.” She pauses, wondering what it will be like. Will it be violent, or gradual? Will they be dumped into space, or float around on a little raft of rock and get caught in a stationary orbit? But no, she can’t take him with her. And suddenly the worst thing is happening; she doesn’t want to die as much as she did. She’s losing resolve. She’s a coward.

“There’s enough hydro to get anybody back to the surface from here,” he says, “Or do we just charge up that pod?”

“No, I can’t. I planned not to come back.”

“And I planned to catch a transport in a few sols. But this wasn’t the spiritual retreat I thought it would be. Truth? It’s been so boring I could barely stand it. You’ve brought some excitement into the mix.”

“But-will we even make it?”

“Might as well try.”

Her heart is pounding, because now it’s real. She’s really going to do it. “Why are you helping me?”

“Since my wife and daughter died, I don’t know why I do anything. I came here to work away from the usual pressure. It sounded so mysterious in my head, sculpting alone on the moon. But I just ended up doing the same work I’ve always liked doing. Except for the renditions of you. Those are new for me. I’ve never been interested in portraiture and you changed that. So, let’s just say I owe you.”

“Oh. I thought-”

“What?”

“I guess I thought you came here to get away from cruel people.”

“More to get away from demanding people. But I didn’t manage that, either.”

“So you’re not-hiding, or anything?”

“Oh, I was. But you thought I was hiding because I’m a hideous dwarf, right?”

Heat rushes up her neck and all the way to her hairline. 

He nods. “Most people presume that I hate myself.” 

Her wrist unit lights up and bleeps.

He smiles, his face shifting under the lumpy curtain of tags. “It’s time.”