Stephen Baxter - Moonseed

“A what?”

“A bright spot of light, right under the sun.”

“Oh.” She looked again at the Moon’s diffuse glare. “No spot. So, dust everywhere.”

“Yeah…”

A hail of dust-sized motes hit the airless Moon constantly. The motes were tiny, but they were moving at interplanetary velocities — greater than ten miles a second — and they packed a lot of energy. The micrometeorite flux was an eternal sandblaster, grinding the Moon’s surface to dust and smashed-up rock.

“Dust, everywhere. Even on the highlands?”

“Even on the highlands,” he said. “It’s why, from the Earth, the Moon looks like a disc, rather than a ball. It’s too dusty to reflect the sun.” He studied her. “You mean that never occurred to you? To wonder why the Moon doesn’t give off highlights?”

“I guess it never did.”

“Well, there you go,” he said drily. “You learned something new already.”

She snuggled down into her bag. “Go to sleep, Henry.”

“Yes, ma’am. I see the Moon, / The Moon sees me…”

Thus, bathed in Moonlight, they sailed between worlds.

Suspended in cislunar space, Henry followed the news from Earth. None of it good. All of it in line with his predictions.

Around Ayr on Scotland’s west coast — near the airport at Prestwick — about fifty old volcanic vents opened up, in an area bounded by West Kilbride in the north, Muirkirk to the east and Dalmellington in the south. Further east many of the Earth’s folds and faults were giving way, from the Pentland fault to the south of Edinburgh to the Tay north of the Forth, and the Campsie Dusk Water faults around Glasgow…

Gradually, the weaknesses in the crust spread through the Midland Valley, towards Glasgow itself. An immense event was approaching.

Henry knew Jane was out of it, safely in the US. He felt ashamed how much that mattered to him, how much it diminished his sense of the tragedy to come. It made his efforts here seem small, absurd. And yet, trapped in the clockwork of the mission, he had to continue.

Soyuz was freefalling towards the Moon. The gravity field of that rocky world would make the craft fall around the Moon’s far side. But, without intervention from its strapped-on rockets, Soyuz would skim through the Moon’s shadow, pass through a zone of occlusion from Earth’s radio signals, and then whip around to the sunlit side — and back towards Earth. To enter lunar orbit, the craft would have to burn its Block-D booster to shed some velocity, slow down sufficiently to be captured by the Moon’s feather-light gravity field.

…Soyuz, Houston. You’re go for LOI. You’re riding the best bird we can find. Godspeed, Soyuz… Soyuz, this is Korolyov. Do not rush to hell ahead of your fathers…

LOI: lunar orbit insertion, the burn of two of their three remaining booster packs to put them into lunar orbit. Maybe the most crucial moment of the mission so far. The irony was, it would happen the first time they were out of contact with Earth, on the far side of the Moon.

And since, with characteristic caution, Arkady had already turned the stack to the precise orientation for the burn — that is, ass-backwards — none of them could see where they were heading.

Henry said, “You know, we’ve come a quarter of a million miles across space, and we’re aiming at a world two thousand miles across, and we’re going to go into orbit sixty-nine miles above the surface. Not much room for error. And we can’t even see where we’re going.”

Geena grimaced. “Every pilot hates not to be able to eyeball the target. That’s why LOS is so important.”

“LOS?”

“Loss of signal. When we go around the corner of the Moon, and into radio shadow.”

Arkady found a place on his checklist. “They can calculate our trajectory to the second, in advance. And if LOS comes when the list says it should, at sixty-five hours, fifty-four minutes, five seconds, we’ll know we’re on course.” He grinned at Henry. “Trust me.”

…And, as the craft turned in response to Arkady’s touches, the Moon came into Henry’s view: only eight thousand miles away now, less than four diameters, it was a gigantic crescent bathed in sunlight, pocked with craters, wrinkled by hills.

And it was growing in his view, even as he watched.

“My God,” murmured Geena. “It’s like a dive-bombing run.”

But they were approaching the Moon’s dark side, and as the Moon neared that sunlit crescent narrowed, even as it spread across space.

Henry leaned into the window and craned his neck to see the sweep of the Moon, from horn to narrowing horn.

Jenny Calder packed her two kids off on the train with her sister. She watched as it pulled out of Glasgow Central Station, at the start of their long journey to their aunt’s home on the south coast of England.

It broke her heart to do it.

She hadn’t even felt able to tell her husband, William, who was on the Northern Channel exploratory rig. Not until he got home. But she’d wait here in Glasgow for him until he returned, just a few more days, and then they would go south together, and be a family once more.

She patted the bulge of her stomach. Soon be a bigger family, in fact; another thing she hadn’t felt able to tell William while he was working so hard, desperately trying to get them a stash of money before the rig work finally disappeared.

The rest of the day stretched before her, empty.

She could go back to the flat. It was on the edge of the Gorbals, where she and William had both grown up, but their flat was one of the better conversions that had been done in the 1980s to attract the yuppies, and now a lot of their money was tied up in it, and of course they couldn’t sell it for love or money since the Edinburgh stuff started happening on the TV. Well, now it was going to stand empty. The police said it would be secure until they were able to return, when the Government got this volcano stuff under control.

There was still some packing to do. But the flat would feel very empty without the kids.

And there was something she had promised herself for a long time.

She went out to the taxi rank. Soon she was in the back of a cab, whizzing along the motorway to the south-west, through Clydebank and Oban.

She reached Pollok Park, and here was the Burrell Collection, airy rooms with a woodland backdrop, stuffed full of the art gathered by William Burrell, a dead ship-owner.

There were figures and statues and heads from Greece and Rome and Mesopotamia and Egypt. She especially liked the porcelain flower girls — the pieces which would fit best in her own flat, she thought, if she was allowed to take something away. And the place was full of surprises, for instance the old doorways and lintels and jambs that had been built into the fabric of the museum.

There were notices saying there had been pressure from the Government to crate up the collection and ship it south, or abroad, until the emergency was over. But the city council had resisted. And Jenny was glad.

She’d lived all her life in Glasgow without seeing this. William would never have been interested in coming here, bless him, and the kids were still too young. Well, it would always be here, in the future.

Being here, it was as if all the volcano and earthquake stuff didn’t exist, as if life was just going on as it always had. But there was hardly anybody here, and on some of the surfaces there was a fine layer of pale grey grit, the same stuff that had come drifting out of the sky all over the city.

When she was done, she spent a while wandering around the Park itself. Just three miles from the city centre, it was like being in the country.