The Moonwalker

Chapter 4

"Now—breathe in."

Aula sucks in a lungful of air.

"And breathe out."

She exhales heavily.

Areza Ward shifts her stethoscope. "Again."

"I'm fine. It's just a little dust."

"Again."

Aula frowns, but takes another deep breath. It's not the first time she's inhaled lunar dust and it won't be the last. She's acutely aware of the stethoscope pressed against her back and the warmth of Ward's hand.

Lunar dust is hazardous, although its effects still aren't fully understood. The regolith is bombarded by the solar wind and cosmic rays. It's both chemically reactive and radioactive. Most of the mare is comprised of basaltic rock from ancient lava floes. Its dust is fine enough to get deep into the lungs and cause inflammation and scarring. Although it has relatively low levels of radiation, exposure continues inside the respiratory tract. The human body has a much lower tolerance for lunar dust than for terrestrial dust, and every exposure requires a trip to Ward. No one's showed severe symptoms. But no one's lived long on the Moon, either.

"Good. Now breathe normally."

She feels like a child sent to the school nurse, but there's nothing to do but endure. Her eyes wander around Ward's office. There's almost no personal touches. Nothing except for a photograph on her plastic desk. That's new. Two girls with deep brown skin and toothy smiles swimming toward the camera. A wide horizon of water stretches behind them.

"Your daughters?" She lifts her chin at the photograph.

Ward pauses and looks over her shoulder. A smile ghosts over her face. "Yes, Ayla and Melisa. Their first swim in the Mediterranean."

Aula's seen that look in more than one astronaut. A part of them always stays behind on Earth. The photograph is made of glossy paper and sits in a wooden frame. She vaguely recalls something of its description on the last LunX manifest.

"Can you raise your arms, please?" Ward hangs the stethoscope around her neck and starts palpating. "Do you feel any nausea, burning, or tightness in your chest?"

"No, nothing. It was a negligible exposure."

"You had time to become a doctor while flying your jets, hmm?" Ward presses her hands against Aula's back. "Breathe in and hold, please."

There's nothing else for it. Aula takes a deep breath and the seconds start ticking in time with her pulse.

"Now breathe out and hold it."

She exhales and an inner pressure builds. Everything in her body begins to beat for air.

A drifting man in moonshadow. All breath torn

from his body. Naked to vacuum, pink

frost glinting on his lips and eyes.

Ward clears her throat. "You may relax, Major."

It takes a moment to push the memory away. She nods and digs her thumbs into the exam table's upholstery.

"What's the verdict?"

"No consolidation or asymmetry that I can hear. The spirometer showed nothing untoward, but I don't have the same tools here as I would on Earth. Without a chest x-ray or CT scan, early detection of astronaut's pneumoconiosis is extremely limited." Ward sits down at her computer and types without looking at the screen. "This is your second exposure in less than a year. Need I remind you that this injury is cumulative?"

"No."

"Good. Do you feel any other discomfort? Back pain, perhaps?"

It's a loaded question. Without the constant pull of Earth's gravity, muscle and bone begin to weaken. Although their exercise regimens combat this, backaches are still one of the most common complaints. It's also a common symptom of depression.

"No."

Ward finally glances at her screen and corrects several typos. "I saw your vitals from the EVA. You were clearly distressed. Don't mistake this as an attack on your competence."

Aula slips off the table and begins to dress. When she pulls her blue uniform, she feels a little more herself again.

"Psych support is offered for a reason—especially at this time year. You won't be punished for using it."

A thing like this is best crushed calmly and early on. Aula leans against the exam table and crosses her arms. It's hard to feel authoritative in a small room smelling like a gym bag, but she pushes all that aside. She's not going to be kicked off the Moon by a keystroke.

"I've made my peace with what happened. I'm not going to reinvent old grief because this anniversary has a nice round number."

Ward studies her for a long time. "Alright. You may return to work. Come back if you need anything."

"I will," Aula lies. "Thank you."

She steps out of the clinic and slides the door shut behind her. She remembers sitting in a wobbly chair while five bureaucrats looked down on her in a semicircle and did their damnedest to keep her grounded. All it takes is a note on file.

She glances at her watch, then starts walking. The visit with Ward buys her an hour off-duty. Plenty of time to have a shower and change. When she turns the corner, she steps into the central hub. A junction of three different halls that branch out in different directions. The memorial to ILUB-1 stands in the centre. A panel of thin black granite is as polished as a mirror. It carries the names of the old crew in a single column. She's tempted to reach out and trace the engraved letters, but her fingerprints would dirty the granite.

Something makes Aula turn. She catches Kelly loitering in the north hallway.

"Sorry," Kelly says and ducks into the hall that leads to Ward's clinic. Her dark, wavy ponytail sways between her shoulder blades.

Ziva had hair like that. It was always in a braid as thick as an arresting cable. They never did find her corpse. What's left of it is somewhere on the Moon even now. Mummified and hidden. Maybe completely gone. Aula rolls her left shoulder and starts walking again.

If Harvey hadn't been there, her name would be etched in stone, too.