Page 1 of Lunar Blackout

PROLOUGE

IOLO

Through the observation window towards the rear of the shuttle, I can see the whole of humanity, all the known life in the universe is within my sight, and I have a strange feeling in my gut. I always assumed I’d have a feeling of existential dread, of isolation when cut off from the entire world, but I learned quickly during my first mission to the space station that instead all I feel is joy, clarity, and hope.

This is different though. The space station orbits the planet, so I have only ever seen part of the earth at any one time, but now as we propel towards the moon, the entire globe is visible to me, and it is beautiful. Any doubts I have ever felt about myself, this mission, the person I am, and who I am with on this mission, have all melted away.

This must be what a religious experience feels like to those with undeniable faith. We have made mistakes, destroyed the environment, fixed the environment, scapegoated minorities to keep the one percent in power. But as my vision blurs and a single tear rolls down my cheek, this cements my faith in humanity to be a force for good.

“You good, Iolo?”

I wipe the tears building in my eyes, turn to my companion on this mission, and give him the softest smile I have managed in ten years since the start of our rift. “Let’s make history.”

ONE

IOLO

I frantically wipe my palms on the back of my thighs for the millionth time, trying to hide the nerves physically manifesting themselves in the least attractive way possible, and take in several deep long breaths to ground myself. Why am I so out of joint over a little press conference?

Sure, I’ve no idea who I’m about to meet out there, and I’m going to be stuck with whoever that person is for almost a week in outer space, not even counting the prep and training leading up to it, and sure, if we don’t get along my dream of being one of the first UBNSA cosmonauts to orbit the Moon will be a horrible experience.

I sit back down and stare at myself in the reflection of the mirror. “Focus Iolo, focus.” Is talking to your own reflection considered a sign of madness?

The mechanical sliding door to the holding room opens with a whirr, snapping me out of the never-ending spiral I always seem to find myself in. I do find it laughable how our modern life often sounds like the silly sound effects of low-budget sci-fi shows and films from the mid-twentieth century. Perhaps it was done intentionally as some sort of in-joke?

Stepping through the door is a tall woman wearing a form-fitting red dress. The crimson fabric folds across her bust, and parts near her hips, creating a wide slit, revealing a black and white checked fabric beneath. The minister clearly chose this dress to be a modern interpretation of the national Welsh costume, of course sans the hat, as that would be ridiculous.

“You’re overthinking aren’t you?”

“No,” I lie. When aren’t I over thinking, and it’s not as if she can actually tell I’m currently an anxious overthinking mess.

“You’re sweating,” she says bluntly as she steps over to me, correctly identifying that the gleam of my skin is a physical representation of my nerves, manifesting as oil and sweat on my tanned skin. Her eyes remain focused on her communication tablet. My sister could always tell when I was a mess without even looking at me.

“Hello Bronwyn,” I say, forcing a smile. I do want to genuinely smile at her, but my whole life, my education, my career has all led me to this day. Is it wrong that I’m anxious about it?

She places her communicator on the dressing table in front of me, spins my chair round and crouches so she is facing me at eye level. “Breathe, shit-stain.”

A small chuckle is forced out of me. “How would the First Minister react if they could hear one of their ministers talking to the most famous cosmonaut to have ever come from the land of our fathers like this?” It was meant to sound sarcastic, but I fear it actually sounded genuine. Thankfully my sister knows me well enough to know I don’t believe what I just said.

A brief moment passes as my sister considers my words, though the spark of mischief glistens in her eyes as bright as the supernova in the sky that was once the star Betelgeuse.

“I suppose” she says, pausing once more for dramatic effect, “that they would give me a good telling off at the next cabinet meeting, followed by a more exciting telling off once we were home alone.”

My sister is the Minister of Science within the Government of the Peoples Assemblies of Wales, and her spouse, First Minister Anwen Jones, a political powerhouse if ever there was one. The downside to having two high up politicians in my family is the constant talk of nepotism I have to fight against. Mostly from the media of the other independent British nations, who truly do not understand the political structure of Wales since the collapse of the United Kingdom back in the mid twenty-first century.

Following historic elections in all the devolved nations, one by one the Celtic countries within the United Kingdom demanded separation from the Crown. Even Cornwall, which was never really taken seriously by any of the other nations, now stands strong alone.

Then around thirty years ago, a political organisation was formed, The Union of British Nations, a new federal union, similar to the EU, designed to work together—sans Ireland of course—in areas that would benefit each other, including the formation of the Trans-Briton Space Agency, known as The Union of British Nations Space Agency, or UBNSA for short.

“I really don’t need to know about your sex life with the First Minister, sister.”

“Then you shouldn’t have brought them up.” She places her hands on mine. “Today is big. Huge. You’ve wanted this since we were kids playing with your silly little action figures in Grampy’s garden, using elastic bands to secure astronauts to the water rockets Gramp made for us.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Breathe.”

Bron’s smile softens as my vision becomes blurry. Her hands slowly release my shoulders and smartens up my tie. “He is still with you, with both of us. He would be so proud of you.” She places her hands on my cheeks and kisses my forehead. Older sisters have always baffled me. One minute they’re loving you unconditionally, the next they’re trying to murder you. I guess that really is true sibling love.

She rises as the door whirrs open once more and her—our—team enter the room. “Right, Alice, powder my brother to hell and back, he can’t be this shiny on camera or the audience at home will be blinded. Dafydd, let’s go over my speech for the state banquet this evening, my spouse has warned me to tone down what they call ‘Anti-English Rhetoric,’ whatever that means.”

Bronwyn and Dafydd leave, discussing the contents of my sister’s speech visible on her communication screen, while Alice slaps more powder on my face than I think there is dust on the Moon.