Silvia Moreno-Garcia - Future Lovecraft

“This ain’t small,” Lottie said. “You’d think they was expecting a six-foot Indian with a hundred-pound ass.”

Once they were zipped in, Lottie showed Hazel how to stock her cleaning pack with the anti-bacterial, anti-viral, anti-germ, anti-dust, and anti-dirt mops and swabs they would need.

“I don’t mind doing basic work like this,” Hazel said, sorting her supplies. “I feel like I’m learning, already.”

Lottie used her fist to cram the last items into her pack. “Don’t get lost,” she said as she headed for the hangar.

Hazel lurched to her feet and stumbled. She grabbed at Lottie’s pack and they teetered for a few seconds before catching their balance.

“Careful, you,” Lottie said.

“I can’t move right and I can’t see,” Hazel said. “These outfits aren’t made properly.”

“Tell it to Aunt Phyllis,” Lottie said. She grabbed a handful of Hazel’s suit in back and put a plastic cleaning tie on it. The fabric puffed out like a big white rose.

“I guess that’s better,” Hazel said.

One last security door stood between them and the main hangar. Lottie waved her fob at the ID pad.

“Nothing’s happening,” Lottie said.

“Did you hear the old crew quit?” Hazel said.

“I didn’t hear that,” Lottie said, wondering why Phyllis failed to mention that.

“We’re not supposed to know,” Hazel said, lowering her voice. “I overheard. They said the Hopper made them feel funny.”

“What else you hear?” Lottie asked.

“Something about the astronauts and the Space Center shrink.”

“What does that mean, feel funny? Like they ate something bad?” The last thing Lottie needed was space flu.

“I don’t know,” Hazel said. She took the fob from Lottie and tapped it against pad. “What’s taking so long?”

A low buzz sounded and the door slid open.

“Oh, see?” Hazel said. Before she should go on, Lottie pushed her through the door.

The Moon Hopper sat in a pool of dim light, looking like a shiny grasshopper built from blocks and tubes. A long ramp led up to the main hatch. A bluish glow came from inside.

Lottie had been looking forward to seeing it for years, but now that she stood in front of it, she was overcome with a sense of disappointment she couldn’t place.

“Wow,” Hazel said, walking toward it. “What an accomplishment for our people and—” She raised her hand to the face plate. “Gross. What’s that smell?”

“You can’t smell nothing. These suits have all kinds of layers and filters.” Then it hit Lottie, too, a wave of thick and terrible smell, like rotten green vegetables and burned rubber. Lottie thought she might put her hand up and stick her fist through it.

“What is it?” Hazel asked.

“Someone must have forgotten a cheese sandwich,” Lottie said.

They walked up the ramp and peered into the main work station.

“I thought it would be more impressive,” Hazel said.

Looking around at the yellowing panels, the torn storage pouches and the carefully placed strips of duct tape, Lottie found it tough not to wonder how the Hopper made the roundtrip each month.

“Looks lived-in, is all,” Lottie said. She stepped inside and her feet skidded on the floor.

“Is it supposed to be wet?” Hazel asked.

“Just leftover something,” Lottie said. She bent to one creaky knee, keeping a hand on the wall for support. She dragged a gloved hand through it and the smell bloomed up from the floor. For a moment, she thought she might gack and she had to rest her head against the wall.

“You okay?” Hazel asked.

“Get the floor clean,” Lottie said, pushing to her feet. She held up a wide scraper, which she fitted on an extending plastic pole. She swept it back and forth, pushing the muck into one corner. The pooled liquid had a grey tint to it.

“Too bad we can’t see any experiments,” Hazel said. She scraped half-heartedly at the floor, her cleaning initiative nowhere to be seen.

“Grab these,” Lottie said, pulling out a wad of absorbent pads and throwing them to the floor.

“I didn’t think it would be nasty,” Hazel said.

“Cleaning is like that,” Lottie said. She explained the Moon Hopper cleaning protocol. Every storage pocket, every compartment, every pouch had to be opened and emptied. Viable items were placed in clean, white bags to be re-sorted for possible future use or distribution. Everything else went into garbage bags.

“That gets sorted more later, too,” Lottie said. “Nothing from the Moon Hopper leaves without being accounted for.”

“How does the re-sorting work?” Hazel asked.

“Not your problem,” Lottie said. She would have liked to explain that certain families benefited from this, but no doubt, Aunt Phyllis would fill her in on that.

“This is the composting bin. We leave it and the HazWaste for another crew. You got all that?”

“It’s not rocket science,” Hazel said.

The two women got on their knees to get the floor liquid up. The goop left sticky stains on their suits.

“How do you know this isn’t hazardous?” Hazel asked, taking her time putting the dirty pads into the trash.

“Just mission muck,” Lottie said. “We’ll see more before the night is over.”

A sound came from the next room, the gentle slap of rubber against a hard surface.

Lottie’s heart surged in her chest, but she kept her mouth shut. She went to the narrow opening and checked the next section.

“Is someone there?” Hazel asked.

“Can’t be,” Lottie said. Nothing in disarray. Her breath sounded loud in the suit. She pressed her palm to her chest to calm down.

“Just ship noise,” she said.

The two women set to work, going through each compartment and scrubbing everything down. Lottie was accustomed to heavy workload late at night and kept a good pace. At one point, she thought someone was watching and she turned, expecting to see Clem, but no one was there. Now that she was inside the Hopper, swimming in strange smells and substances, she had an idea what “feeling funny” might mean. Her skin was cold and her dinner didn’t sit right.

“Do we have time to rest?” Hazel asked.

“You barely move,” Lottie said. She’d been watching Hazel from the corner of her eye. She had house pets that could do better.

“This is super hard,” Hazel said.

“No whining,” Lottie said. “Next area is the sleep station. It’s smaller.” The sleep station was a series of cocoon-like pods, one for each astronaut. The section was lit with a few dusty lights that cast a dingy glow over the worn cloth of the pods.

“What do you think?” Lottie said. “The Moon mission lasts over a week. This is where you’d sleep, strapped in so you don’t float around.”

Hazel’s eyes got big. “How do they relax, stuffed in like that?”

“That’s the job,” Lottie said. “We gotta pull all this stuff out for laundry.” She leaned into the first pod to release the sleep gear. A muffled pop came from inside and a wave of spoiled smell boiled up.

Hazel gagged. “I can’t stick my hands in there.” She tried to back away, but she didn’t get far in the cramped quarters.

“Nothing to worry about,” Lottie said. She pulled the girl to her side and showed her how to untangle the straps and sleep cloths. Hazel’s hands jabbed in and out, like she was reaching into a box of spiders.

“I’m so sweaty,” Hazel said, in a shaky voice.

Lottie noticed it, too, a cold, uncomfortable damp in her armpits and crotch. “Hard work is good for you,” she said.

Lottie had to do the last pod by herself. She cinched the laundry bag and left it on the floor.

“One section left,” Lottie said, urging Hazel to the control room. This was the tiniest room yet. The two women squeezed in side-by-side.