Shanghaied to the Moon by Michael J. Daley Page A

“I’d do better with the joystick on the left. Can you change it?”
    â€œMaybe. Why?”
    â€œThis bothers me sometimes.” I show him my right hand.
    He winces, then looks at his Chronomatrix. “Not enough time now. Next session. What happened anyway?”
    â€œWhen I was little …” I stop myself from repeating Dad’s story. Because if I don’t remember it, how can I be sure it’s true?
    â€œActually, I don’t know.”

12
    MISSION TIME
    T plus 12:08:12
    WE’RE out of time. Come on.”
    He powers down the simulator. We’ve done three more landing attempts … resulting in two crashes and an explosion that blew up the squid and the shuttle when I fired the ascent engine instead of a thruster. Too bad the simulator is such a dud; that would’ve been something to experience in virtual reality!
    I twist out of the squid and stretch. Sure feels good to move ! Despite the failures, I’m feeling upbeat about how things went. It’s my typical learning curve with a new ship, but he’s not happy. He’s floating near the hatch of the canister wearing a sour expression. The only thing he said to me after each simulation was “try again.”
    Would’ve been great if things had clicked right away—surprise him for a change. But so what? I don’t need to impress him. I got the basics down. I could fly away in the squid if my plan to find the radio and call for help doesn’t work out.
    I launch myself toward that end of the canister, doing somersaults as I go. Reaching the wall, I make like a swimmer about to turn a lap, but instead of pushing off, I let my knees absorb the momentum. I stick there like Spider-Man, four feet from the hatch. He stares at me, a look of surprise mingled with … relief?
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    â€œNothing. Just didn’t know if you had that kind of spacial sense in you or not. I’m glad to see you do.” He shuts off the lights in the canister and ducks into the tunnel.
    I follow him, closing the hatch behind me.
    He soars across mid-deck and stops at a control panel near the ladder. He shuts off the lights in mid-deck, then glides through the hatch into the glow from flight deck. I’m right behind him.
    Even on flight deck, he’s got half the lights shut off. When I settle into my seat, I notice a few consoles are dark, too. One of them is the radio. It’s on his side of the cockpit. I’d practically have to crawl into his lap to get to it.
    â€œWhat’s with the lights?”
    â€œFuel cell failed. Have to conserve power.” He pulls a clipboard off its Velcro wall hanger.
    The fuel cells make electricity by combining hydrogen and oxygen gas. The “waste” is pure water. That’s what we drink from the dispenser and why it tastes so clean even in this tub.
    â€œHow many are left?”
    â€œFour.”
    No big deal then. He’s just being cautious, since a couple are usually spares. We go back to worrying about our real problem. Like two anxious parents after a feeding, we wait for the NavComp to execute the next maneuver—come on, baby, burp.
    Beep. The prompt alerts us to pay attention.
    â€œThere she goes.” He checks the sequence off on his printout.
    â€œBurp.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œGet serious, kid. It’s your watch.” He hands me the clipboard, draws his finger down the columns of the mission profile. “Time here. Maneuver sequence here. Verify on monitor two. Check off here.”
    I’m glad he thinks I’m goofing off. Mission time is 12:18:16. The first maneuver I have to verify will happen in fifteen minutes. The next one is an hour after that. That gap ought to give me enough time to use the radio. Unless he isn’t asleep by then.
    â€œYou going to sleep now?”
    â€œCocktail hour first.” He reaches for the jacket stuffed between the