The Moonwalker

Chapter 15.3

Aula's Z-1 lies dismantled around her. She establishes a pattern: a few swipes, then rest. It's still enough to make her sweat. She wipes her forehead with the back of her hand to prevent moisture from seeping into her steri-strips. It becomes another step in her pattern. The caked blood is stubborn and browning, but it flakes off with enough effort. Harvey labours on the other side of her suit, brow furrowed in concentration. Voices echo faintly from outside the equipment locker; a reminder that they're not the only two people on the Moon.

"You're avoiding someone," he says without looking up or changing his expression.

"E'eryone."

"Nope." Harvey sits back and folds his cloth. "Someone."

She starts cleaning the helmet disconnect's O-ring. A tiny maroon crust clings to the inside.

"Let me guess. Sophie?"

She glares at him and he spreads his hands in a gallic shrug.

"It was the smile. You're a grumpy asshole 96% of the time. She's always in the other 4%."

The right corner of Aula's lip curls up in contempt.

"Exactly." He picks up an EVA glove and starts bending the fingers back to see if there are any cracks. "Al, that woman loves the shit out of you."

He doesn't say anything about being closeted, but he doesn't have to. They've argued about it for years. He's the first. The darling. A charismatic white guy who happens to have a husband. He's in textbooks as the signpost for America's social progress. The astronaut office wouldn't touch him otherwise. But she's bisexual. The B in LGBT+ isn't viewed half as charitably. They're dismissed as attention-seekers, cheaters, and fence-sitters. Nobody likes ambivalence; not the public and certainly not a space agency. Being out and being selected remain incompatible.

"It's 'oo she is."

Harvey exhales sharply, something not quite a laugh. "No offense, but I wouldn't call if you left me twice."

Her hands stop in place, but after a few seconds, she nods and keeps cleaning.

"Who knows, maybe third time's the charm." He looks down at the glove in his hand. It's the most demanding part of engineering any spacesuit. Even at a third atmosphere, it takes a lot of strength to use. "I guess Sam never stood a chance. Not like me and Ziva didn't warn him off."

Aula breaks her pattern and cleans until her arm aches. She can feel Harvey watching her, but she doesn't acknowledge him. The specter of their lost crew expands inside the locker like a long exhalation.

"Sorry." He lets the glove flop onto the floor. "It's hard not to think about these days."

She keeps herself focused on a stubborn strip of blood. Sam died at her feet, bloated and shuddering in the regolith. Where did Ziva end up? The lack of an answer is harder to accept than the most gruesome alternatives.

After a long pause, Harvey sighs. "All I'm saying is we're doing something only a handful of people have done before. But this isn't forever, you know? You should hang on to something back home instead of...."

He makes a vague gesture to the locker around him, but it's easy to read between the lines. 'Before charging headfirst into another mission.' She rubs the edges of her steri-strips with her thumb, eyes unfocused.

"It's one ca'."

"Oh, bullshit." He squints at her like she's suddenly blurry. "You kept quiet so I could have a shot at the Moon. Don't think I don't know that." He grabs the heel of the Z-1's left boot. "But you did it for yourself, too."

Her expression hardens.

He looks down at the boot's worn tread. "Is Sophie with someone?" At her silence, he lifts his head. "Well?"

Aula shrugs.

"Shame." He runs his thumbnail along the boot's sole and it quickly gathers grime. "We only get so many chances."

Lunar dust like snow. Sam's hand in her hand. Sam on his knees.

Sam's eyes rolling up at her

She clenches her jaw and fresh pain cuts through the image in her head. "Too 'ate. Anaaya."

Harvey quirks his brows. "Maybe. That's tough on a kid."

It's hard to think of words that won't come out garbled. She sits back and holds the cloth in a death grip. Another bead of sweat stings her eye and she wipes it away impatiently. Faint whiffs of blood still percolate in the air.

"Tough," she says, "but right."

"Oh, I've been on the receiving end of your 'you'll be better off without me' crap." He suddenly fixes her with a flinty look. "I'm not a fan. Don't expect Sophia and Anaaya to be, either."

She cranes her neck and continues working the blood out of the helmet disconnect. It's a long maroon seam, easily overlooked if someone isn't looking for it. No matter how much force she applies, it won't come out.