The Third Man

I watched the regolith dust sparkle like fresh snow as it spilled off the end of the conveyor belt. It was almost pretty. But the rhythmic, low-frequency vibration of the heavy machinery climbed into my boots and traveled straight to my head. It rattled my teeth. I’d been in such a rush this morning that I forgot my mouthguard. The sensation was nauseating, and I could feel a tension headache creeping in behind my eyes.

Each automated excavator processed over a hundred tons of lunar surface material a week. The entire outpost could handle roughly ten thousand tons per month. It was a massive operation by lunar standards, yet the higher-ups were constantly complaining that it was wildly underperforming.

I never worried much about the big picture, I was just here to punch in and punch out. I never imagined I’d finish my first two-year contract, let alone sign up for an extension. But here I am, year three. I stayed for the same reason everyone does. The bonus credits. I needed them, Jenn's medical bills are just too expensive. God, I miss her. I’ve only been home twice. Sometimes everything feels like a big cosmic joke, and somehow I’m the punchline.

Whatever. Day fourteen. Last shift in the Mare before I ferry back to the Artemis Nexus colony. Two weeks back in civilization. Shackleton Crater might not be home, but at least it’s better than the isolation out here in Mare Imbrium. They have showers, a pub, and near as much Shackleton Cider as a man can drink without going blind.

The green light on the side of the extraction bin started blinking; it was almost full. Now let's hope this piece of shit doesn’t get stuck again. If it weren't for the regolith dust, this place would hum, and we’d get by with a skeleton crew. Instead, it gets into every nook and cranny. It wreaks havoc on electronics, bearings, ball joints, you name it. Back home, they have automated vacuums to clean up after humans. Up here, it’s the other way around. Then again, if it weren't for the regolith, we wouldn't even be here.

A flash.

The horizon goes white. A sudden, blinding light cuts right through my sun visor. I turn my face and lift my arm to shield it. There's nowhere to turn. The entire lunar surface is a blazing mirror. Temperature spikes inside my suit and sweat stings my eyes. The emergency warning on my HUD is pinging. Hazardous radiation detected.

My vision blurs and the nausea I already felt metastasizes. I nearly vomit but I hold it in as the stanchioned dig-site lights blink off.

No. This can't be happening.

Oh god.

The emergency beacons atop the stanchion pulse to life. A strobe of white and red lights. Then the comms crackle, barely functional. The signal is severely degraded, but I already know what they’re saying.

"Warning... Not a drill… Larger than anticipated… Get to safety...”

I feel a burning sensation in my thigh. The radiation spike must have been bad enough to trigger the prophylaxis auto-injector.

I don't understand. The morning flash briefing said there was an X Class flare. They forecast an S2 radiation storm. We were supposed to have 24-36 hours. I should have been back to Shackleton before it hit. How did they get it so wrong?

The automated message is set to repeat three times, but I can't even hear it. The radiation alarm in my helmet is deafening. It's so loud, if I survive this, I'm bringing it up to Health and Safety. I know whatever’s happening is unprecedented. The alarm skipped two initial warning levels and jumped straight to move-or-you-fucking-die mode.

Soon, the drumming in my chest and my fevered breathing overtake the audi-alarm. I don't even have time to power down the equipment. I pivot and start to run, but the regolith under my boots slides away. It is like trying to sprint on a trampoline dusted with sand. I trip over my own feet, tumbling in low gravity. A slow-motion catastrophe. I just hope to hell no one is watching.

By the time I hit the dirt I have a puncture in my suit. I must have got snagged on one of the excavators' tool hooks. The air’s rushing out creating a dust devil of charged regolith dust that sticks to my visor.

Another alarm.

"Warning: suit pressure dropping. External leak suspected.”

Which pocket which pocket.

Fuck.

Right side leg pouch! I pull out a peel-and-stick nano-patch. Like a giant bandaid it's sealed in a protective wrapper. I lift it to my mouth to tear off the corner.

Thunk. My hand slams against the visor.

Jesus Christ, get it together. You can't die on this rock.

I grab it with both hands and try to yank it open but accidentally fling it away. I can barely see it floating off like an errant frisbee. My visor is fogged up and caked in regolith dust. If that wasn't bad enough, my field of vision has narrowed to the width of a nickel.

An orange-blue streak flashes in front of me. Then a heavy, dust-caked glove grabs me by the shoulder. He'd snatched the floating packet right out of the air.

"Get a grip, kid," a gruff voice crackles through the headset.

I blink through the sweat stinging my eyes. It's another lunar miner. I can tell by the orange suit. It's an older model, worn smooth, but these things were built to last.

The stranger kneels beside me and doesn't fumble-fuck around. He hooks a small corner loop of the package onto a metal utility post on his outer wrist and tugs down hard. The oversized flap tears open clean.

He slams the heavy peel-and-stick patch directly over the puncture near my abdomen, pressing down with his palm until the whistling stops.

"Fucking rookies," the man grumbles. "This is why those VR sims are garbage. You don't develop actual muscle memory.”

My breathing steadies. Even just the presence of someone else is grounding. “Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

He hauls me to my feet. “Don’t go writing cheques your ass can't cash later. Long way to go yet.”

“Uh, what's a cheque?”

He shakes his head. “This time remember your training, not the sim.”

“Right. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.”

He smacks the side of my helmet. “Knock off that movie shit. Fast is fast. But you can't sprint in low G. You'll end up eating shit again if you try. Now hop like a bunny. Hop like your whole life depends on it.”

The man turns and begins to move. A rhythmic, low-gravity skip across the ground, milking what little traction the regolith offers. I follow suit, mimicking his movements. Movements I already knew but just completely forgot. Hop, glide, stabilize. Hop, glide, stabilize.

My visor is dripping with condensation. The heat in my suit is still climbing, and so is the Sievert counter on my HUD.

0.6. 1.0. 1.2.

For a moment, I consider punching another hole in my suit just to get some ventilation. I almost laugh, thinking about what the old man would say to that.

“Hey,” I call out. “I’m losing sight of you. My visor is completely fogged over and the caked-on dust is glaring from the emergency lights.”

His voice crackles over the radio. “You shouldn't be looking at me. Use your HUD. The waypoints will guide you to the shelter.”

Fuck. I feel like an idiot. I knew that too. Why do I keep forgetting everything? Through the snow of interference, a faint green marker is visible against the static. It’s blinking in and out but it’s there and something to orient towards.

“Hey, I didn't catch your name. I’m Dave.”

“Pauly.”

“Have we met before?”

“No, I don't think so,” he says. “I work the night Mare shift. Got here a day early. They wanted to get us out here and you fellas home before the storm.”

“I guess that didn't turn out too good.”

“Depends how you look at it. Might suck for me, but sure worked out well for you, didn't it?”

“You ain't wrong about that, Pauly. Ain't wrong at all.” I chuckle. “I didn't think they were running the night crew yet?”

“Technically they aren't. They just send some of us old-timers out here to run maintenance and make sure when you big shots show up, everything's working smooth as molasses.”

He's funny. I like him.

Up ahead, Pauly’s silhouette veers toward one of the tall industrial light posts. I can see him waving me over. He must have turned on a signal beacon on his suit.

“Hey kid, come here. We’re getting cooked out here.”

I get there just in time to see him pull out a small, cube-shaped package. He clips its heavy tether to his belt and yanks a bright red ripcord.

An impossibly thin micro-sail blooms upward silently, unfolding into a wide, shallow canopy above us. I’ve never actually seen a portable storm shade used before. It's a woven mesh of high-hydrogen polymers, graphene, and compressed regolith fragments. It won't stop the radiation, but it will slow down the counter now sitting at 2.0 Sieverts.

"Stay close and stay under it," Pauly orders. “If you're lucky, maybe you can still have another kid. Teach him what not to do in an emergency.”

And then he’s off, moving again with a purpose, the canopy swaying above him. I'm right behind him. I’m burning up, and my legs feel like they're soaking in a vat of novocaine.

Then the oxygen sensor in my suit triggers. First-stage alarm. If I'm lucky, I've got five to ten minutes of air left.

Pauly must have seen the automated O2 buddy lights flicker on. Rings of white LEDs meant to make it easy for someone to do an emergency tank swap, either here or out in zero-G space.

His voice breaks the silence.

“Don't stop now, Dave. We’ll be at the shelter before you run out. We stop now, we're eating more rads for nothing.”

I’m not so sure, but if today’s taught me anything, it's that I can't trust my own judgement right now. “I think you're right, Pauly. Let's just hope the doors aren't seized.”

The final five hundred meters are a blur of gray shadows, flashing sirens, and the heavy, rhythmic scrape of my boots against rock. The shade drifts above us the whole way, a dark canopy swaying on its tether. I follow the green dot on my HUD, my thighs burning, my tongue dry and tasting of copper. The world narrows to the space inside my suffocating helmet and the beacon leading me forward.

There, ahead, a massive airlock door rising out of the dust.

Pauly slams his hand against the emergency cycle button. A puff of air shoots out from the hydraulics when the automated door jolts to life. As the seal cracks open, he pulls a utility knife from his belt, cutting the tether and letting the storm sail drift free into the void. The door is heavy, shaking the ground as it slides open.

My oxygen buddy lights start strobing. I'm completely out of air.

Blind panic takes over. I reach for my helmet release latch, desperate to rip it off, but Pauly sees me and grabs my hands to stop me. I fight back, screaming that I can't breathe, but he pins me hard against the airlock wall.

"You need to wait for the airlock to finish cycling," his voice comes through the comms, steady and calm. "When the alarm goes off, you still have one to two minutes of oxygen left in the lines. You're going to be fine, Dave. Remember your training."

But I can't think. I keep clawing for the helmet. I half expect him to just let me suffocate and be done with it. As the outer door slams shut, I feel a heavy thud through my boots, and then the airlock instantly comes alive.

High-pressure overhead blowers turn on. The complete silence of space swallowed by the roar of maintenance fans blasting the toxic, static-charged dust off our suits. The jagged glass particles clatter through the grated floor and vanish into the reclamation hoppers below.

The pressure gauges equalize. The green light flashes, and Pauly finally releases me.

I collapse to my knees, throw open the neck ring on my suit, and tear the helmet off. I let out a horrible, ragged gasp, sucking in air like a deep-sea diver surfacing from the depths. As the inner door slides open, I drag myself forward, gulping breaths in between heaving bile onto the clean floor. I must look like a slug crawling through that doorway, leaving behind a slime trail of sweat and sick.

The cool, slightly stale metallic air of the safety shelter rushes into my lungs. My body begins to jerk uncontrollably as I think of Jenn.

Something inside of me just broke.

Through the panicked breaths and sobs, I manage to wail out, “Thank you, Pauly. Thank you so much. I didn't think I was ever going to see my family again.”

“Who’s Pauly?” a voice asks in the distance.I look up and see it's Katie. She and Evan are already here, safe.

“Pauly from the night crew. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't have made it.”

Evan looks worried. “Holy shit, Dave, are you okay? How much of a dose did you take?”

Katie stands and starts toward me. She stops and picks up my helmet.

“Oh my God, Dave. 3.1 Sieverts. No wonder you aren't making any sense. Evan, get the radiation meds.”

As he reaches for the emergency kit, Evan turns to me. “You know they haven't run a night crew in years, right?"

The nerve of this guy. “Then who the fuck is that?” I point behind me.

But there's no one there. Just the airlock door.

My eyes drop to my own wrist. The nano-patch wrapper is still hanging from the utility post like a torn flag. And there, clipped to my belt, the clean-cut end of a tether swaying slightly in the ventilation.

The shelter suddenly feels a lot colder.