A city reaching a new morning, artificial lamps above spooling to life in replication of a natural sunrise. Slaves to the cyclical cycles of a world’s passing hours, a colony waking to face another Wednesday.
Emily Matthews checks the watch on her wrist, the screen activating as it detects the motion of its user. A time scale written in bold on the top right, the background of animated sunflowers beneath blue skies covering a handful of hidden applications within the wearable device.
8:09 AM.
The young woman takes a deep breath, calming herself against a day’s events. A smart mirror in front of her activates as she stares at her own reflection, the singular washroom placed into the corner of the tiny personal quartering of company housing cramming together the cube of bedding and storage space.
Short brown hair cut to company regulations, her baggy green overalls and mostly unkempt style relatively fashionable against the drab gray world of standardized lunar infrastructure.
A duffle bag held at her waist, the thing’s mass at least a heavy ten kilos at adjustment, mercifully light against low gravity. Woven synthetic fiber packed to the brim with equipment: a mess of spare clothing, electronics, and snacks surrounding the primary payload for the event.
Emily checks her watch again, the memorized time echoing in her mind.
10:33AM.
Two hours and twenty minutes remaining.
Straightening herself she pulls a smile onto her freckled face, opening the apartment’s door to the world beyond.
A habitation block inclusive of six hundred individual dorms for five hundred and fifty souls, a corporation’s margins thin in the offering of accommodations. An entire small town’s population crammed into boxed quarterings, one amongst dozens more in the sealed settlement.
Lunar gravity in effect, workers skipping across prefabricated streets with arching strides; a waking population thin in the morning hours of the workday.
There were benefits to rising a half-hour earlier than the rest of course; the automated coffee shop at the edge of Block 07 was basically deserted. Standing tables and seating arrangements held by a total count of eight workers, the familiar faces of strangers reminding Emily of memorized words.
Follow your routine.
Hot meals prepared by automated systems, the requirement for human intervention only in the final stages of application. The young woman orders the usual, tapping a touch screen as she selects a meal from standardized items.
Scrambled eggs, french toast and bacon; served on a reusable, stainless steel tray.
A breakfast on the company dollar, the food itself palatable but leaving the woman still wanting.
Emily gripes with herself as she glances over at the separate vendor built into the small eatery. The logo of a whirling multi-colored tornado, a single line of blocky text naming out its intended audience.
A luxury paid for by her salary, an unimportant financial situation thanks to a competitively substantial wage but yet representative of something more than simple profits and expenditure.
Her philosophy professor’s voice echoes in her mind, a memory retrieved from a college education four years prior. Analogies can work as a heuristic tool. It may not be related to a specific topic, but people do use them in justificatory roles.
She silences the thought, her own mental state pushing herself towards the purchase. I deserve it, I’m doing the right thing.
A cold, custom made smoothie dispensed into a stainless steel mug: real coconut, fruit, and coffee mixed with ice sucked through an edible sugar-cane straw complementing an already balanced breakfast.
Follow your routine.
The young woman finds her usual seat, the lonesome corner of the mostly deserted eatery populated by her and her alone. Meal placed atop secured metal tables, the low gravity demanding a rubberized surface to adhere items to.
She stops staring at the food for a moment, taking in the world around her in the pre-rush minutes.
The beginnings of a waking populace, artificial light streaming down from lamps nearing a full output as the morning hours begin to crawl towards noon. The banging of repairs from hydraulic hammers echoes through concrete and metal, the soundtrack to the meal disconcerting in its random application.
Emily sighs, pulling the phone from her pocket. Electronics folding out to reveal a more ergonomic shape, a screen displaying several alerts.
A group chat in the midst of conversation, the young woman’s timezone automatically isolating her from her earthside friends. Following it, layers of news reports were stacked upon one another in digital layering.
Social ideologies rejected, she instead selects the news application for in-meal entertainment.
Meandering her way through seemingly tasteless food, a rising nervousness hits Emily as she continues down the list of articles.
A world tearing itself apart: conflicts in the Middle East bridging military operations in the South China Sea against the Java Treaty. South American insurgencies towering over them all as accusations of war crimes spread like wildfire across image boards. Superpowers operating with impunity as precision airstrikes evaporate entire city blocks, warfare easily deniable through the optical lenses of loitering drones.
She checks her watch again, confirming the time as she finishes the final slice of french toast. Bold text repeats the numbers, a meal consumed much faster than usual: 8:27 AM.
The memorized time comes again: 10:33 AM.
Emily stares at the security cameras, half spheroid shapes reflecting her own nervous expression through distorted glass. Cold algorithms behind them, automated security noting an employee ID via facial recognition.
Follow your routine.
The young woman stands, the half-full aluminum tumbler held in hand as she moves to deposit her reusable tray into the collection slot. Hairs standing straight upon her spine, feeling as machine eyes watch the human soul.
8:32 AM, almost two hours before the event.
Everything will be alright.
Moving through the streets of the colony she carefully skips her way towards the terminal. A duffle bag strapped tight to her form, heavy equipment secured against hostile lunar acceleration.
More people exiting housing, life awaking as the morning rush begins once again. Replication of a routine on a world nearly four hundred thousand kilometers away, a normal existence augmented by the reality of lower gravity, domed cities, and artificial sunlight.
The entire atmosphere changes as the young woman nears the central quarter of the city. From packed residential housing to tourist oriented industry, architecture shifting to an almost neo-classical and post-modernist design from a brutalist oriented utility.
Open shops sell aisles of souvenirs: replicas of manned landers and probes alongside moon rocks in sealed glass containers marked up at obscene prices. A handful of older tourists meander their way through the central district, the thin late april crowds a precursor to the incoming chaos of a global summer vacation. Wider streets paved with brick tile alongside well maintained buildings, real plantlife providing shade to a climate controlled microcosm of civilization.
Emily ignores the overt consumption of humanity, a task refocused as she sips the smoothie from her temperature regulated cup.
Four terminals within the central dome; each leading outward in the connection of infrastructure. Lines of maglev-trains running on regular schedules, national colonies interconnected by transportation of cargo and personnel.
The young woman stops as she watches the crowds move towards one of the terminals; lunar miners on an everyday commute to work suddenly forcing intrusive thoughts into her mind.
A moment of reconsideration, a checking of her watch again to confirm a timeframe.
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8:55 AM.
Two lines augmented by one more:
10:33 AM.
Follow your routine.
Gate Seven.
Her own words come into her consciousness, confidence surging from a self-imposed pep-talk. I can do this!
Emily Matthews pulls a smile on her face, the short body on march towards the terminal.
Massive arching gates built into the city’s habitation dome tower over the workers beneath it; giant open emergency airlocks marking the boundary to the lunar-metro’s self-contained system.
Words welded onto arches with gold titanium sheets, a welcome and goodbye written in the city’s native American english.
ALAN B. SHEPARD TERMINAL
Layers of security at the entrance, armed marines wearing royal and dark blue American Space Force camouflage augmented by private security guards in dull gray fatigues. Black sidearms and submachine guns looped on armored tactical vests, augmented reality helmets scanning the crowds for threats.
Millimeter scanners set up in checkpoints, each marked with gigantic holographic numbers projected into the air above.
From one to seven, counting up from left to right.
Emily takes a moment to breathe, observing the populace as she readjusts the package upon her shoulders.
A majority of souls found in lunar miners; the hour before the start of the day shift in distant extraction sites spent within the monotony of a daily commute. Worn bodies represented by uniforms stained with patches of long dried industrial liquids and sweat, an iconic ruggedness hiding something more…
Painful. Emily’s conscious supplies. People being worked to death. Slaves of a cruel system.
A few families are spotted amongst them, snippets of foreign language indicative of an international origin. A terminal’s connecting points reach outward beyond into the permanent settlements dotted upon the lunar surface, their presence here nothing more than a layover for another leg in a journey.
The young woman checks her watch again.
9:10 AM.
The lines repeat in her head.
10:33 AM.
Follow your routine.
Gate Seven.
Manned by private security in gray fatigues, the gate was marked with a blue Seven orbiting above it.
A queue moving fast; human beings scrutinized down to their very bones as scanners hum away. Bags of working supplies, tourist souvenirs, and digital devices cataloged by image recognition software, identifications confirmed by internal camera systems scanning faces.
One traveler every two seconds, instructions printed in English above the machine.
WALK SLOWLY THROUGH
In front of the young woman a group of workers talk amongst themselves, their standardized uniforms identifying them as fellow employees within the same corporate unit. Ears tuned, Emily catches snippets of conversation.
“... the problem isn’t their defensive line.” One of the men shrugs, casually poisoning his words. “It’s in their…”
“We don’t talk about the Rams’ defensive line.” Another one stops him with laughter as he steps into the scanner. Turning around, he faces his other co-worker. “And hold on. I feel bad because we’re leaving you out of this. And you know… ”
A middle aged woman chuckles at the words directed at her. “If you want to talk about baseball I’m all for it. But football’s much more… ”
One of the security guards snaps his fingers, Emily’s world suddenly slamming back into reality. “Hey keep it moving please.”
A boxy scanning device, the young woman immediately inhaling at the realization of her place as first in line.
Panic, fear, settled as she stares forward. Sweat beading on her forehead, feet moving in complete instinct.
10:33 AM.
Follow your routine.
Gate Seven.
She shuts her eyes as she steps in, the scanner chirping out a minor alarm in recognition of the device.
Emily turns, eyes meeting with the machine’s technician.
Mid-twenties male, gray security uniform matching with unusually graying hair. Brown eyes snap between screen readings and the form of the young woman.
Highlighted red, the item within her bag barely identifiable by human eyes yet triggering enough for trained artificial intelligences.
The man blinks, his own memorized lines echoing through a thought process.
9:15 AM.
Follow your routine.
Let her pass.
“She’s good!” He gives a thumbs up, voice admitting a nervous crack. “Got a false positive again.”
Security guards nod in lazy acknowledgement, motioning for her to continue onward against the pressures of commuters behind her.
Emily quickly scoots away, a gut convulsing in nervousness as she attempts to settle nerves. Panic set upon her, a uniform sleeve wiping away beading sweat on her forehead.
Another deep breath, time checked in case of anomalous readings.
9:18 AM.
Seven minutes to the next train, the young woman quickens her pace as she fast walks towards her allotted station.
A construction running alongside the exterior of the main habitation dome, a transport terminal allowing for an actualized view of the lunar surface beyond.
A pale white geography, horizon curving against the tiny satellite body. Compacted dust roads carve trails between craters from ancient meteorite impacts, lines of infrastructure reaching outward from the settlement. Auxiliary solar panels forming huge farms, covered tubes providing avenues of expedient transportation.
Meter thick windows containing atmosphere within, the young woman ignores the view as she continues forth.
Dozens of automated stores for travelers lining the stations; dispensaries for books, souvenirs, and even a small food court dance unintrusive adverts towards the morning commute.
10:33 AM.
Follow your routine.
Gate Seven.
Get on the tram.
A station crowded with miners in uniform, Emily one of the first in line as she stands behind the illuminated yellow caution strip. Transparent glass and doors separating the train tube from the station, the lunar landscape beyond deathly quiet against the conversations of workers.
An artificially synthesized announcement spoken in several languages, the station itself internationalized for convenience. The young woman only understands the English, adjusting her stance as she hears it.
“Please stand behind the caution line. The 9:25 AM train to Site Juliet Seven with final stop at Mond-One is arriving.”
The black, windowless shape decelerates as it arrives in-station, soundless in cold vacuum. Supercooled magnetics levitates the thing centimeters above the ground, a beast of transportation halting in motion as it connects with the train station’s securing clamps.
The hiss of atmospheric equalization, doors opening to reveal a well maintained interior.
Cushioned seats alongside rubberized standing poles and handrails, a handful of already seated passengers within the cabin moving aside as commuters begin to file in.
Emily Matthews pushes herself within the train car, tripping onto one of the few available seats as her small form is accidentally shoved aside. The middle aged perpetrator makes a grunt, a scrunched face speaking out cautionary words. “Sorry!”
Just like the rest. The young woman thinks as she ignores him, situating herself within the comfortable arrangement.
Beyond compacted humans the few commuters left on the station stop in the realization of a full load, experienced minds opting instead to take the next train.
The automated voice makes the announcement. “Doors are closing. Train is leaving Camp Armstrong.”
A hiss of hydraulics, the passenger car sealing itself against vacuum.
From a high pitched whine to a low groan, the spooling of magnetics rumbles through the entire vehicle. A body lifting itself centimeters from its rail, near-magical levitation reduced to the most boring aspect of daily life.
Acceleration starts slow, lunar gravity forcing a low gradient in reaching top speeds. Barely noticeable at first, after five minutes a quick glance through false windows reveals an insane velocity.
Traveling within a vacuum sealed tube, the maglev train pushes the very limits of human perception. Absolutely frictionless travel bridging huge gaps in distance, kilometers crossed in seconds. A lunar surface blending together into one white mass from speed, the occupants within currently engrossed in personal electronic devices and physical print books.
10:33 AM.
Follow your routine.
Gate Seven.
Get on the tram.
Arrive on site.
Emily checks her watch, three digits replaced with four: 9:25 AM.
An hour and eight minutes remaining.
The young woman glances around herself, watching the passengers within her small isolated position.
A majority made up of her comrades in contract, co-workers wearing similar working fatigues. Mining drone operators, facility managers, and even the rare on-site in-suit repair worker entertained by individualized activity. A handful at the back of the maglev car in loud conversation, snippets of food preparation techniques and future group vacations echoing through a mostly silent car.
Emily holds her duffle bag tight, a breathing pace quickening in the moments of consideration. The device held within fabric silent, a plan already enacted; lines of no return crossed minutes prior.
Panic unnecessary, a belief and faith kept as she grips the bag’s straps.
Wiping sweat off her brow she takes a deep sigh, watching as a family of four near the front of the car stare at the passing lunar landscape. A father and mother governing two prepubescent sons, statements of awe spoken in assumed German as they point out towards the distant horizon.
Words echoing in her mind:
10:33 AM.
Follow your routine.
Gate Seven.
Get on the tram.
Arrive on site.
Pass the package.
She checks her watch again, this time swiping for more information: 9:32:45 AM
Everything’s going to be alright.
Emily breathes, her heart rate slowed as the planned time falls to sixty minutes to come. Still plenty of time remaining; plenty of breathing room, plenty of thinking, plenty of relaxing left.
The bomb detonates an hour early.