Page 3 of Lunar Blackout

A MONTH AGO?

Without saying a word, I shove my mug into his hands. Surprisingly lovely. My eyes linger briefly on a vein trailing up his forearm, then I storm off to see my sister. She steps away from Anthony before I get to her, grabs my elbow in a way that to the outside world would look harmless, but which anyone with an older sister would know is a painful physical imprisonment, and directs me into the corridor.

The look on my face is trying to be authoritative, while her eyes show worry. She knows I know.

She pushes me into a small office. I don’t say a word, I just stare at her. A month she has known, and she chose not to tell me. Finally I ask, “Why?!”

TWO

WINSTON

Well, that was strange. Iolo has always intrigued me, ever since we first met as young adults at the initial multi-national UBNSA training weekend almost a decade ago. We have both gone so far since then, and I’ve always felt a little pride that I knew him, even if it was just briefly. Seeing him succeed warmed my heart, like how his cup of tea warms my hands now. I swear I could hear the cogs inside his cute head whirring at a hundred miles an hour as he rushed off with the Welsh Government minister.

I place the tea to the side and hope it doesn’t get cold before Iolo comes back. If Iolo comes back. My boss, Anthony, walks over to me, I reach to shake his hand before he takes a stand next to me. “Did you hear her? Clearing her throat because I said ‘Ladies and Gentlemen’ and not a more—” He lifts his fingers to do air quotes. “—Inclusive greeting.”

I roll my eyes.

“So performative.”

“You know the First Minister of Wales is Non-Binary, Anthony, there is no harm in using welcoming language.” I hope my use of the word ‘welcoming’ rather than inclusive lets him know he’s in the wrong.

“Worst part about that is you can’t tell if they are really a-”

I stop him before he can say any more, and lean in to whisper. “Anthony, they may be guests in our country, but neither England nor the RSO can afford to piss the other nations off, we are no longer the controllers of this island, and you’d do well to remember that. The majority of this mission is funded by the other nations. We are lucky, I am lucky, that they gave the second spot to me.”

His skin reddens, and a sharp breath exits his flared nostrils, but what is he going to do, publicly berate the poster boy of the Royal Space Organisation? I don’t think so. Especially not before the State Dinner this evening at Buckingham Palace.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Iolo walking back in with a rather attractive woman in a beautiful red dress. She’s curvy in a real way, and if I went that way, and if I didn’t know she was taken, I may have taken a shot. She’s as beautiful as Iolo, and he’s certainly more my type, but I would never tell him that.

Without a word I walk away from Anthony as Iolo’s gravitational pull lures me towards him. And I go willingly, with the pretense of returning his drink to him.

He takes the mug almost apprehensively, like he doesn’t remember our interaction only moments ago. The attractive woman he is with joins us before I can say a word.

“Oh good, my brother and the Englishman kissing and making up, that’s what I like to see. Can’t have this rift continuing when you go up to space, now can we?” She plants a kiss on Iolo's cheek and then walks off looking proud of herself.

Rift? That has me stumped. I have no reason to feel any distain for Iolo, and as far as I knew he held no hostilities towards me either. Then I smile at him once more, and he looks like he wants to murder five generations of my family. Why do my hands suddenly feel very clammy?

***

My dinner partner is a bore. Instead of listening to him ramble on about the history of astronomy in Europe, I count the chandeliers in this grand ballroom instead. There are six. That didn’t waste as much time as I would have liked.

I’ve been in the palace once before, when I was awarded an Order of St George, formerly an OBE, for my work developing the UBNSA segments of the ESA’s space station in low earth orbit. Bureaucracy always confuses me, each nation in the UBN has its own space organisation, which work together as part of the UBNSA, which in tern is a part of the European Space Agency. It would give me a headache if I thought about it for too long.

This palace is the only English residence that remains in the hands of the royal family. After the Great Schism, as the monarchy calls it, the loss of taxes coming from the other nations, the government needed to increase its spending for the first year to keep the country in good shape, and the Monarch, King George VII, willingly — apparently — donated all of the royal estates except for Buckingham Palace.

A footman, or waiter, or whatever his job is, leans between us to take away the plate in front of me, most of the food untouched. For starters we had a root vegetable soup, which was as enjoyable as soup can be in the warm weather of spring. The main course we’ve just finished was some sort of lab-grown meat replacement. I usually like the chicken and pork you can buy at the shops, but I think this was meant to be a recreation of veal, and it wasn’t for me.

Usually the palace would use real meat for these events, but with the Welsh being the guests of honour, and it being illegal to kill animals for any product there, I think that was done out of respect to our guests. And quite frankly, I don’t think I would have enjoyed real veal any more than this lab-grown one.

“So, going to space, aye?” says the boring man next to me. I nod politely as I grab my wine and take a sip—who am I kidding? It was a gulp—and now most of my drink is gone. Where is the footman-waiter-servant man when you need him. Over the brim of the cut crystal glass, I can see Iolo at the other end of the table. He keeps looking over to me, and I truly have no idea what I’ve done to cause a rift between us.

After his sister dropped that bombshell, he quickly excused himself from the lunch, and I haven’t had a chance to corner him yet at this banquet. There must be somewhere in this vast palace where I can have a quiet chat with him. Whatever our issues are, we have to sort them out before we are trapped together in space.

A cough next to me reminds me that Mr Boring is waiting for a reply. “Yes. Along with Yolo app Gr—rough,” I wince, knowing I said his name incorrectly, but at least he isn’t here to give me his evil stare at my butchering of his name.

Scrap that, he is giving me an evil stare right now anyway.

Suddenly there is a clink of metal on crystal as a footman, or whatever he is, behind Queen Jane II, silences the room. I always admire that Her Majesty chose to title herself as the second Jane. Many historians discount the nine-day queen of centuries ago, but our queen took the name with pride. She was named after the previous Queen Jane, as when she was born she was given nine days to live, but she survived. No one expected her to become queen, and her brother was clearly unhappy that she did, but here she stands, a testament to anyone with chronic illnesses that you can do whatever you want to. When you have the support of the entire government purse, that is.