Энди Вейр - Artemis

“I thank,” I said with a smile. “I thank many. Moon is much excitement!”

I had a fake identity. Time for Phase Two.

I brought up the map app on my new Gizmo and pretended to navigate with it. Obviously, I didn’t need a map to get around Artemis, but it was all part of my tourist act. I wandered inefficiently across town to the Port of Entry. I carried a big purse, of course. What tourist woman would be without one?

Now for the tricky part.

Everyone knew me at the port. I was there every day and my sparkling personality was hard to forget. That’s not ideal when you’re trying to sneak around. But today I wasn’t Jazz Bashara. I was Nuha Nejem, Saudi tourist.

I headed to the waiting area next to the train airlock and joined a crowd of tourists. All the seats were taken and dozens more people stood around. Several families had obnoxious kids bouncing off the walls. In this case, “bouncing off the walls” is not just a figure of speech. The overstimulated kids were literally bouncing off the walls. Lunar gravity is the worst thing to ever happen to parents.

“This is so cool!” said a dumb blonde to her trust-fund boyfriend. “We’re about to take the moonorail!”

Ugh. Only tourists called it that. It’s not even a monorail! It runs on parallel tracks, just like trains on Earth.

By the way, we also hate it when people call us “Loonies” or when they call Artemis the “City in Space.” We’re not in space—we’re on the moon. I mean, technically we’re “in space” but so is London.

I digress.

The train finally arrived. I pretended to be enthralled by its approach like everyone else. It was just a single car, not the long-ass trains Earthers are used to. It slowed to a crawl next to the docking port and inched forward until it connected. After a click and a kachunk, the round entry hatch opened up to reveal the conductor.

Shit! It was Raj! He wasn’t supposed to be there! He must have switched shifts with someone.

Raj and I grew up together. We went to the same schools. We were teenagers together. We weren’t close friends or anything, but we saw each other every day for most of our lives. My dress and hijab might not be enough of a disguise.

He stepped through the aperture and adjusted his uniform—a silly, nineteenth-century-style, navy-blue outfit with brass buttons and a conductor’s cap. Giddy folks returning from the Apollo 11 site exited the train. Many of them carried souvenirs from the Visitor Center: lunar modules carved from local rocks, Apollo 11 mission patches, and so on.

Once everyone de-trained, Raj called out in a clear, loud voice, “ This is the 2:34 p.m. traaaain to Apollo Eleeeeeven! All aboooooard!” He held out a vintage-looking brass ticket shredder. Of course, there were no paper tickets to shred. It was just decoration surrounding a payment pad.

I closed the niqab a little tighter and walked with a hunch. Maybe if I changed my body language I wouldn’t be as recognizable. Passengers filed past Raj, waved their Gizmos over the shredder, and walked through an antechamber into the train.

He made sure there was only one person in the antechamber at a time. He was sneaky about it, mostly by standing in people’s way. It was easier than explaining, “If there’s a pressure failure, the antechamber door will close. The city will be safe but you’ll die.”

When my turn came, I looked down to avoid eye contact. My Gizmo beeped and popped up a text blurb:

CITY OF ARTEMIS: 75ğ TRAIN FARE.

Raj didn’t notice me. I breathed a sigh of relief and stepped into the train.

The seats had all been taken and I was ready to stand for the whole trip, but a tall black guy saw me and stood up. He said something in French and pointed to his seat. A true gentleman! I bowed to him and sat down. I rested my purse in my lap.

Once the last passenger boarded, Raj followed and sealed both antechamber doors along the way. He walked to the front of the train and spoke over the intercom. “Welcome to the Lunar Express! This is the 2:34 p.m. service to the Apollo 11 Visitor Center. Our scheduled arrival time is 3:17 p.m. Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times!”

A snicker rippled through the passengers. It was a stupid-ass joke, but comedic gold to the tourists.

The train set off. It was utterly smooth. No rocking, no shaking, nothing like that. It ran on an electric motor (obviously) and the tracks never had to deal with the warping effects of weather. Plus, there wasn’t much weight on them, compared to Earth tracks.

Each row of seats had a porthole window. Passengers eagerly took turns looking at the drab, rocky landscape. Why did it excite them so much? It’s a bunch of gray rocks. Who gives a shit?

A frumpy Midwestern woman giggled at her window and turned to me. “Isn’t it amazing?! We’re on the moon !”

“ Ma’alesh, ana ma’aref Englizy ,” I said with a shrug.

She turned to another passenger. “Isn’t it amazing?! We’re on the moon !”

Nothing like a language barrier to make people leave you alone.

I brought up an Arabic gossip webzine on my Gizmo. I just wanted an excuse to keep my head down. Fortunately, Raj was manning the controls and facing away.

By the time we arrived, I had learned all about the latest scandal in the Saudi royal family. The crown prince had cheated on his wives. Two of them had filed for divorce under the Islamic law of Khula, but the other two were standing by him. I was halfway through reading the queen’s quote on the situation when the train came to a stop.

The familiar sounds of the docking procedure clanged through the car and Raj shouted “End of the liiine!”

He walked to the door and opened it. “Apollo 11 Visitor Center! Have an excellent stay!”

We all crowded out of the train and found ourselves in a gift shop. Some folks stopped there, but most of us continued forward to the Viewing Hall. That entire side of the center was floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the landing site.

A well-manicured docent greeted the crowd as we approached the glass. I averted my eyes. Yet another person I knew. Goddamn, it’s annoying to commit crimes in a small town.

Gunter Eichel had emigrated to Artemis ten years earlier with his stepsister, Ilsa. They came because they were ostracized in Germany for being a couple. Yes, really. That’s why they emigrated. We don’t care what people do, sex-wise, as long as everyone’s a consenting adult. (Though some folks stretch the definition of “adult.”)

Anyway, he and I weren’t friends or anything. My disguise would be fine.

He waited for people to conglomerate, then launched into his presentation. “Welcome to Tranquility Base. Come on up to the glass, there’s plenty of room for everyone.”

We moved forward and lined up against the giant windows. The lander sat where it had been for the last century, alongside experimental packages that the old-time astronauts had laid out.

“You may notice the Viewing Hall windows follow a weird path,” Gunter said. “Why not just a half-circle or a straight line? Well, we have a rule that nothing is allowed within ten meters of any part of an Apollo landing site. The definition of ‘any part’ includes the lander, equipment, tools, the commemorative plaque, and even the footprints left behind by the astronauts. The Viewing Hall is built so that each window is just over ten meters from the nearest part of the site. Feel free to wander along the hall to get a look from different angles.”

Some of the tourists had already walked along the serpentine wall. But with Gunter’s suggestion, several more began the trek.

“If you’re nervous about a pane of glass separating you from the vacuum of space, don’t be. These windows are twenty-three centimeters thick to protect you from the radiation. That has a side effect of making them the strongest part of the Visitor Center’s hull. And, I’m proud to point out, the glass was manufactured right here on the moon. A small amount of regolith dust was added to darken it. Otherwise the sunlight from outside would be blinding.”