The Lunar Cycle

Warning: mention of climate change and suggestion of suicide.

Mister Treasurebanks of Napollo-19 sat at a window seat in The Tsukimi Cafe. Two newspapers, a chocolate-chip muffin and a cappuccino, with cinnamon sprinkles, loitered about his table. He wore a fine grey suit which seemed old fashioned for the era of the spaceman. He unfolded a newspaper and sipped on his cappuccino. His next sip shall be poisoned.

Most New-Apollo spaceships orbit the Earth, which, these days, makes for a rather poor view. After increased demand, a second production run introduced thirty additional spaceships, including the Napollo-19. These spaceships exercised the right to spiral round our moon to the pleasure of its residents.

The lunar bauble has been called by many names: Selene, the Dragon egg, Tsukuyomi; each has their own myths and stories. The moon shines like glitter across leaves and grass, tree-bark and dirt. The large grey eye, as some call it, dances across every bed of water. It shines sunlight on Earth's blackened grounds. Ancient humans used it to ground themselves in time; track the busy months and broken years. It's hung like a conscience. The simple moon has watched through heartbreak and warfare, victory and rebirth.

We thought of the moon as Earth's closest neighbour, oldest friend, innermost love. Though, science supposes, a mars-sized object hit the Earth. The ground was volcanic and treacherous, yet desolate. From the collision, exploded: the ground who escaped Earth's orbit would tie into our moon. Therefore, the moon is a vestige of our purity, crystallin proof of our former planet. From its rushed birth, my only regret is that it didn't escape further.

A headline caught Mr Treasurebanks' eye. He turned to page three when a pasty girl chimed the shop-bell. She lay her fingers across the wooden counter and whispered an order. Her shoulders were pointy and thin like a coat hanger. A shirt, black tie and slacks hung off her body—brown hair was tied in a bun. She looked like an office worker: common enough occupation for the residents of Napollo 19. Less common: she itched her neck like she wanted to break a record. She thanked the barista and took her coffee to the sugar-stall. She added two brown packets, whisked her head around the cafe, and supplemented her coffee with a hipflask. She lidded on her latte; approached Mr Treasurebanks.

The girl took an open chair. Treasurebanks lowered his paper. 'Yes?'

'You're the guy?'

Treasurebanks contorted his face three ways. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'You're—' she looked about for idle ears; pushed herself across the table. 'You're the one who wants to change the world.'

'Pardon?'

'You're the one who— I read your paper— mass electrolysis? through hydrated pyroxene?'

'Oh—' Treasurebanks sat up with an unfought grin. 'Yes-yes, that's me. Oh, how embarrassing. I didn't think anyone had read that old thing; you must be from the University?'

'Yes, we were— well— I read your paper and it was really quite— you're not planning on— Hasn't anybody shown interest?'

Treasurebanks noticed the girl had weaselled herself onto a different chair. Furthermore, she had scratched the back of her neck so much that specks of red appeared on her fingernails. Treasurebanks didn't let such trivialities disturb his moment of recognition. 'Well actually,' he pulled his sleeve and checked his watch. 'I have to deliver a speech in half an hour about that very subject. Everybody will be there. If everything goes as I think it will, some years from now, the world will be changed.'

Like the dollar with gold, neither the years nor days were backed by terrestrial rotations. When the oil crisis struck, economies collapsed and working hours had to be regulated to those who needed them. For simplicity, or to quell the masses, the UN decided all men had a right to eight salary hours per day. Though, a need arose for gradations of hour: a poor man doesn't need as much time as a rich one. The rough-and-tumble of politics aside, this morning, the United States hour is up 1.24% whereas the Metric European Time Unit has plummeted 7%. It's a trifle of worry. In old-time, Europeans on Napollo 4 and 5 get twenty minutes to work before they need to clock out and go to bed.

'Then,' the strange girl strummed her fingers against the table, 'you're going to tell people?'

'Well, of course. M discovery is major news. You've read the paper: we have the power to change the world. My discovery will catapult us centuries into the future— the energy that we can synthesize is enormous. We could travel six laps around the Earth and moon on pebbles. It's fusion for the household. A second Nuclear age. A fourth Industrial Revolution.'

'But— your formula— eighty per cent CO2 and Hydrogen waste.'

'Ah.' Treasurebanks realised her position. 'It's no matter; there's plenty of space to dump it.'

The girl seized his newspaper and showed it to him. 'Haven't you read the news? The atmosphere has expanded. The Moon has slipped closer to Earth. Your discovery will kill the human race.'

'That's preposterous. You're being dramatic.'

'I read your paper. I know you know it. The whole thing is an elaborate dance around the subject. You just want to profit.'

Treasurebanks sat back in his chair and folded his arms. He rustled his hair and pitied the girl with a sigh. 'Okay, yes— I've thought about the implications and you're right. Should my discovery be utilised to its fullest potential, there could be side-effects. But think of the energy, the science, the high. Six laps— on pebbles.'

'It won't matter if we're killed,' the girl hissed. 'We moved away from non-renewables moments before mass-extinction and you want us to relive that? You have a responsibility to remove yourself and choose what's right for the species.'

'We won't be killed. We'll deplete the rest of Earth for energy.' He taps his foot against the table leg. 'That'll carry us to the next big discovery. It's only Earth.'

'We can't mine the Earth. When was the last time you looked at it? You realise they put windows on one side of the ship so we can't see it?'

'That's—'

'Earth's a mess. The ground's alight; we've killed half the species. The ozone's threadbare. It's a sinkhole. We can't rely on it for anything. That's why we're here. That's why we're all on these half-built bomb-shelters.' She kicks the wall and it flexes. 'I know what you really plan to do— what you'll hollow out and defile for expendable resources.' She pointed out the window. 'If you publish, they mine the Moon.'

Her lips tightened. She leant back on her chair and stretched her eyelids to watch the man. Her muscles and ligaments prepared for disaster. She tried to decode Treasurebank's face. Did her punch land at all?

'Whether its the Moon or the Earth,' he sighed, 'pebbles.'

A shudder began at the girl's tailbone and climbed along her spine like a strain of ice. Her neck coagulated as she tugged a last breath. Her head dropped backwards and she stared in the tungsten light: the dust of polyester and Styrofoam drifted through. Her face moulded to a rough gaunt shape as if she'd lost a gamble at the casino. £100,000 lost on red. But it sank: the tragedy is larger than the roulette wheel. Larger than the quick drink before the business meeting tomorrow. Larger than the casino, or Vegas, Nevada or the Napollo 2 spaceship, where the above are located. Her eyes clouded: her life has stunted itself onto a new path; she lacked the control to jump it back to the first. She won't see the humble-tumble of ordinary again; she's a castaway.

'Look,' Treasurebanks bobbed his fingers on the newspaper, 'in a world where we can't see the future, where the very next minute is in flux, there is only one virtue.' He pulled back and spread his arms. 'Science. With science, we can forecast. We can predict the future. Furthermore, we can change it.'

The girl was stationary hitherto and the fat deposits on Treasurebanks' temple began to sweat.

He leant in and flattened his hand across the table. 'The only way to produce reliable forecasts of the future is to expand our knowledge of the past. To that end, every scientific discovery is necessary—vital and a virtue.'

The girl wrapped her fingers around her paper cup, pulled her thumbs in spirals and gazes to the stars and the moon. She knew it's a mirror, and if it were polished, she could have seen the Earth in its face. Home. A ball of grey gas.

The girl sipped her coffee. Treasurebanks continued, 'to hide a scientific discovery is to damage the human heart. And the heart fights. I agree, its result could damage us, but the human spirit will always endeavour to learn. Here's a truth: whether it's me or someone a few years from now, my process will be discovered and exploited.'

The girl's fingers tightened around the coffee mug and she sipped again.

'I can keep control,' Treasurebanks asserted. 'If I spearhead this, I can make sure the technology is used respons— you're drinking my coffee.'

'Oh,' the girl placed the mug. 'Sorry.'

'It's fine.' Treasurebanks put his hand on hers. 'The point is: human spirit will prevail.'

'That's an excuse.' She pulled her hand. 'You hadn't even thought of the effects before I sat down—'

'Of course, I had.'

'You wanted to hollow the moon.'

'We need something. We can't sustain ourselves off the Black Plate.'

She stabs, 'my parents died on the Black Plate.'

In the unlikely event you catch Earth on a clear night, a few degrees right of the moon, you'll notice a large black spot with an absence of stars. Though it can't be seen in daylight, that black spot has been the life force of the human race for the past century. The Black Spot is a solar array between the Moon and the Earth. Four-hundred-thousand miles wide, it uses electromagnetic induction to power every Napollo Spaceship orbiting the Earth and Moon.

Treasurebanks was silenced. The girl spoke without ambition. 'When the asteroid hit The Black Plate, they needed workers. The governments went around the last cities on Earth for cheap labour and sent fifty-thousand families to work on it. We didn't understand why they came to Earth. Real engineers were on Napollo spaceships. Then, we arrived. The Black Plate wasn't designed to be manned. We lived on scaffolding—heated by Sun and circuit boards. Short of food, management and hope, people turned wild. They attacked each other and broke into gangs. Half of us tried stealing and killing for survival. The other half tried repairing the plate as quickly as possible. My parents, I was only little, were in the second half. They wanted to work our way back to Earth before we were killed.

'My father left the ship to work on a piece of outer panelling, but suffocated when the door wouldn't reopen. My mother was left. She worked the ship at night and fended off savages in the day. Eventually, a screwdriver found her gut. She bled out.

'How was I going to be valuable after that? My parents worked to carry me for years. With them gone, what was the point? What was the point in me? I was luggage my parents didn't need any more.

'I got older, but I didn't work on the ship. I drank on the lower levels: right through my teenage years until the Black Plate was done and I was put here, where I drank more.'

'I'm sorry,' Treasurebanks said with his mug in his hands.

'I liked not remembering I was useless. I didn't see any reason to remember, so I never stopped drinking.'

'Are you—?'

'I ended up in the hospital ward. The doctor gasped when he inspected my liver. He told me it was my choice. I could stop and live, or continue and die a week from now. I thought about it, but I was given a life. It's my only possession. Even if it's rotten, I'll keep it.'

Treasurebanks looked at the moon. Its beauty was an indescribable thing, but it was there. The ship was the same: stained walls and stuffy corridors. Its beauty was indescribable, but it was there. He thought, no matter what happens in the meantime, he'd quite like to keep it.

He sipped his drink. 'If I don't publish my discovery, somebody else will. But, if I publish, get funding, and bring sabotage. An explosion, a poor yield, unexplained cost—' the girl looked up: face numbed with shock. 'The name will be spoiled. That's the only way to kill a discov—'

Treasurebanks' skin turned pale. He inched down his chair and his knees gave out. He slumped down his chair but fought to lean in. His vision blurred as he stared at the white froth in his cappuccino. His head hit the table and he collapsed on the floor. The girl pushed off her chair. She called baristas for help. She shouted at him, to breathe, and live, and not to die. She applied compressions on his heart. But the man, whose skin started matching his suit, said nothing.

The girl realised he was right and the only way to kill the terrible idea was dying in front of her. She glanced at her coffee cup. The drink lined with poison, that she held in her mouth, and deposited in his mug. She grabbed the cup and ran into the corridor. She unpopped the lid and drank, until she passed a window. The old lunar bauble caught her eyes; a tear formed.

She spat out the poison, slipped down the wall, and cried in the moonlight.