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Waning Hope

Nihilian Effect Lore: Book Four - Part 1: Aspiration

By Kal S. DavianPublished 7 years ago 22 min read
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“Martin, this is Hope Base.”

Martin jumped at the noise from his headset, losing his hold on the wrench. The tool tumbled from his gloved fingers and floated down to the moon's surface to land with a dusty splash.

“How's it going out there?” a voice inquired. After hearing nothing but his own breathing and the hum of the air circulator for the past hour, the new sound resonated within his helmet.

“It's going fine, Eirene,” he half grunted in irritation, both at the difficulty with the wrench and at being bothered right then. They were members of a crew performing the first extended stay mission at the Hope Base on the larger moon, Selas; Eirene was the commander and Martin the crew's engineer, but she treated him as if he were little more than a handyman.

“Are you almost finished? I need to contact Mission Control, and Raitrin needs her shows so she can stop getting on my nerves.”

“Yes, yes. It'll be up and ready soon.” He grimaced at the rigid gloves that made it difficult to grasp anything. They were a necessary annoyance, but an annoyance nonetheless. “Damn gloves.”

“Repeat that, Martin. I didn't copy.”

“Nothing. I'll be done shortly, Hope. Martin out.” Martin reached over to the display panel on his wrist and disabled the headset, mashing the buttons with a bulky fingertip. Dealing with the gloves was irritating enough without a voice in his ear.

His task would not have been so complicated if magic was permitted during space missions. Casting a simple dome of air around himself would have made the job much easier. But the restriction was understandable; composing magic and then maintaining that composition off-planet was difficult, not to mention the struggle of maintaining an air bubble against the vacuum of space.

Huffing in frustration, he buried the fingers of his glove into the soil and obtained a mass of dust with the wrench. He passed the tool to his other hand, then let the dust slide from his palm. A chill washed over him as he watched the particles descend in a cloudy stream. So similar to the dirt back home, and yet completely foreign. Rigid, gray stones and granules cascading in a slow-motion free-fall. Even after having lived on this base for months, he still found the effects of lesser gravity fascinating.

Martin raised his head to stare at the planet that hovered in the lunar sky. He had wanted to go to space ever since he had seen a Stalus rocket launch when he was eight. The thunderous roar and billowing smoke rushing from the rocket's boosters had filled him with awe, and each launch since sent shivers down his spine. He and every other boy at the time had slept with, dreamed of, and played with rockets. Martin had immediately put in an application to be an astronaut, but children were not allowed to go into space. He was persistent, though. When he received his acceptance letter during his final year of college, he jumped to join the space program, no questions asked. Now, as he gazed across the empty space at that beautiful azure sphere, he knew that he could not have made a better choice.

He returned his focus to the disabled communication satellite dish in front of him and used the wrench to remove a secondary panel. With the damaged parts replaced, all that was left to do was to replenish the power supply by installing a fresh pyruta core. The dish was equipped with solar panels, but any external equipment still required a power source for shadowed hours.

Removing the circuit card from its slot, he examined the current pyruta core that it contained. The core was only about half degraded—little fractures showing in the violet marble's surface—but since he was there, he figured he might as well change it out. The older one would be kept as a spare.

Martin placed the card into his tool box, then picked up a new card containing a fresh core and slid it into the slot. He felt the card click into place, and a light at the top of the slot pulsed a warm yellow. Power was waiting. The dish was ready to be reactivated.

He closed the panel, watched the wrench float down into the toolbox near his feet, and then reached for the power switch on the side of the satellite's support rod. With a silent spark, the lights around the rim of the dish came to life.

Martin stepped back to admire his work. Fixing the dish itself was nothing spectacular, but he had done it on one of the moons. His father might call him a dreamer, but he would be proud. Pausing to admire the planet one more time, Martin latched the toolbox shut and headed toward the base's nearest airlock.

The base was a testament to the progressions of the current age. Domed modules connected by tubular nodes and fitted with the latest technology, transported in pieces to the moon over the span of eight years. Massive funds had been poured into the project with few expenses spared. With the world advancing at such a high rate, outer space seemed like the logical next step. Other teams inhabited the base during the construction and configuration phases, but theirs was the first to use it solely for experimentation, as was intended. Martin stood at the doorstep of the future.

Inside the airlock, he waited until the light on the door changed to green—indicating that his suit was magnetically cleaned and the room was pressurized with breathable air—before stepping into the preparation module. He sat on the bench in the middle of the white-paneled module to remove his helmet and boots. The cramped room was padded with suits on hooks beneath a shelf supporting other helmets, one for each member of the crew.

“Eirene's pissed.”

Martin looked over to see a slim mo'ken standing in the hatchway that led to the rest of the base. Shiny beige fur covered her slim arms, feet, and cheeks. Her monkey-like tail wavered in the air as she floated into the room to land on the bench. Even wearing the mission's standard white t-shirt and pants, she was elegant, the lesser gravity increasing the gracefulness she had displayed during training. The mission's insignia sat on her right breast and shoulder, portraying a set of crescent celestial bodies aligned with a rocket sailing across them.

“Isn't she always, Raitrin,” Martin said as he wriggled out of his suit.

“True. You really shouldn't turn off your headset, though.”

“I needed the silence.”

“I hope it was worth it.”

Martin hung the suit on its hook and headed out into the cylindrical nodes that connected the base's different modular rooms. Raitrin took advantage of the low gravity as she followed after him; her prehensile feet clanged on the tubes and wires that ran along the ceiling. Martin hopped in long strides through the base, using the handrails that lined the walls to pull himself along between footfalls. He was in no hurry to face their commander, but this was not the first time he had pulled this kind of stunt, and he just wanted to get the encounter over with.

Entering the domed service module that housed the kitchen, he found the woman sitting in a chair at one of the two tables. Her arms were folded beneath her breasts, and her glare made him wonder if he might burst into flames. The tight sandy bun on her head wrenched at her forehead, the hair parting around two flat lumps that reminded Martin of tree stumps: the remains of what had once been roe antlers. She had been told that if she did not have them amputated to accommodate for helmet regulations, she would be removed from the program. It was a choice many applicants were not allotted, as those with wings, horns, or other complex racial features were often rejected from the start. The stumps were her constant supply of irritation.

“Just what the hell were you thinking,” Eirene said. Raitrin brushed by Martin and glided through an open hatchway into the adjacent service module that acted as a rec room.

Martin pretended to ignore Eirene as he hopped to one of the food cabinets and chose a meal that was not much more than paste in a packet. Smoked chicken sandwich with tomatoes, mayonnaise, and wheat bread, again. Their selection was running a bit low. The latest resupply shipment had been lacking; some trade issues down on the planet. He hoped that today's scheduled shipment would change that. He desired selection. The taste of the sandwich was fine, but sometimes the texture made him want to gag.

He swallowed hard and said, “I wanted to get the job done.”

The glare she gave him questioned his sanity. “So you turned off your headset as if that would help you work faster?”

Martin was not sure if that was a question or a statement, but he did not feel like responding regardless. Slurping on the straw of his lunch, he stared back with a blank expression. There was not a whole lot that she could do. Everyone knew that she was edgy, so any report she made about his actions would be taken with a grain of salt. Her skills were what kept her from being replaced.

Shrugging, Martin broke eye contact and lowered the packet. “I won't do it again.”

“See that you don't,” she huffed before rocketing out of her chair toward the hatchway from which he and Raitrin had entered.

“Wow. You sure have some balls, there, Mr. Rebel,” Raitrin said from the rec room couch once Eirene was gone.

Martin smirked to himself. “Maybe I do.”

He floated to the rec room hatchway and leaned on the cold frame, feeling the tug of the artificial gravity within. The room sported an assortment of exercise equipment, a set of tables for cards or board games, and a telescope that could be moved to any one of the room's many windows. On the far wall, a screen much larger than anything he had back home cast shadows throughout the dimly lit room.

“You seen this shit?” Raitrin asked, gesturing at the screen. A world map with colored annotations filled the screen as a news broadcast blared of tension and the possibility of war. The nations had always been apprehensive toward one another, but things were getting out of control. Something was going to break. The moon base, with its crew made up of different nations and races, seemed to be the only thing holding the world at a truce.

Martin grimaced. “The gods cannot be too pleased about this. They've always demanded peace.”

“Careful, if we go to war, Eirene might take the opportunity to kill you before you make it back to the ground,” Raitrin said and flashed him a big grin over her shoulder.

“C'mon, Raitrin. She wouldn't go that far. But you know there's nothing she can do. We're in space! We have assignments that have to be done.”

“She could give you all the shit jobs.”

Martin paused. He had not considered that. Sure they each had their assignments, but they were also more or less interchangeable and knowledgeable about each working part and station on the base. He could end up with latrine and clean up duties for the duration of their mission.

“Oh, and thanks for fixing the reception, by the way,” Raitrin said.

Martin nodded in reply, but she was no longer looking at him.

He finished his meal and disposed of the packet, then headed for his capsule to take a nap. He exited the kitchen opposite the hangar hatchway and passed through the service node, an intersection that contained hatchways to the latrine and the infirmary. Beyond lay the long habitation node, lined on either side by dwelling capsules. He glided to a stop at an open capsule hatch and peered inside.

Within, a mu'ris man with a brown button nose and mousey ears relaxed on a chair. The auburn fur on his face formed a short goatee at his chin, and his thin, naked tail swished across the floor behind him. A naiad lay curled up on the bed to his left, holding her stomach and moaning softly. Her azure hair and blue-tinted skin glistened with sweat.

“How is she, Peji?” Martin whispered, eying the handful of empty water packets piled beside the bed.

The mu'ris man turned from the book he was reading to look at the woman. “Tui isn't doing any better. The Longing seems to worsen by the day. The injections no longer have an effect. She may have to ship out early with the next return shipment.” Closing his book, he sighed.

“I don't know what they were thinking,” he continued with a touch of ferocity and pounded a furry fist on his thigh. “They had to have known this wasn't going to work. If I thought it would actually help, I would give her my entire supply of water right now, but even that wouldn't be enough. She needs a large body of water. An ocean! Nothing else will suffice.”

Martin was not sure what to say. They had planned for everything—even what to do if they encountered aliens—but all the planning they could dream up would not have made any difference. This was an experiment, and sometimes experiments went wrong. Tui was not going to die, but it would be a miserable mission for her if she stayed. There was no point in her remaining on the base; she would be bedridden the whole time. The results of the experiment were obvious. Naiads were not created to leave the planet and its bounteous waters.

“I'll update the captain. If you guys need anything—anything—you let me know,” Martin said before continuing down the node. The least he could do was bring them their meals.

Upon reaching his capsule, he turned to the comm on the wall and pressed the button for the control module, the most likely place that the commander had headed after their conversation. The receiver crackled a moment later.

“Yes? What is it?” asked Eirene.

Martin cleared his throat. “Just updating you on Tui's status.”

There was an audible sigh of annoyance from the other end. “Go ahead.”

“The situation is unfavorable. She may need to ship out next chance we get.”

“Copy,” was all the commander replied. It was not a very heartfelt reply, either, but there was nothing that could be done at the moment anyway. They had to wait for the incoming supply spacecraft and then discuss a return trip with mission command.

Martin eyed his bed, which sat along the rear wall of his capsule. It was comfortable, but the narrowness of it made resting problematic. Any strong movement in your sleep sent you soaring off the mattress due to the low gravity. The capsule pod itself was not much wider than the bed: a small room with a single window and its own emergency hatch. A desk was inset into one wall and a few shelves and cupboards were part of the opposite. An arm-lamp sat over the head of the bed, and a locker at the foot. Everything was a creamy white color, comprised of metal and a durable synthetic. Nice enough, but he missed home with its wood and colored furnishings.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for his boot, but before he could remove it, the comm crackled again.

“Attention all crew members,” a deep, gruff voice said. “Supply shipment inbound. Arrival approximately forty minutes. Those on duty, suit up.” Druger, their science engineer.

Martin slammed his foot back down, causing him to rise a little off of the bed. He stood and pressed the comm button for the hangar. “Martin here. On my way,” he said before exiting his capsule.

Raitrin and Druger had their spacesuits on by the time Martin arrived to the preparation module.

“Hurry and suit up, then join us in the hangar,” Druger said. The dark mops of hair that sat on his head and chin were a contrast to his pale, fur-less hyma skin. Martin nodded, waving him off. Raitrin scowled at Martin, a warning to watch his attitude, and then closed the clasp on the back of Druger's suit. Martin began clambering into a suit as the others entered the air lock and closed the hatch behind themselves.

Martin was in no hurry to fumble around trying to unload the shipment while wearing the cumbersome gloves again, but he loved to watch the automated crafts that delivered the cargo. They appeared weightless as they alighted toward the surface of the moon.

Slapping on his helmet, he clasped it tight and followed after them. The wait for depressurization in the airlock seemed to take forever. The oxygen hissed out through the vents at a maddeningly slow pace, until he could finally open the exit hatch. The word “hangar” always brought to mind a spacious building filled with ships or other flying vehicles, but the base's hangar held extra supplies, a moon buggy, and a single emergency escape vessel.

Druger typed on the digital panel on his wrist, and the hangar's gate rose like a massive garage door. In the darkness above the vast, gray, crater-dotted terrain, an object sat unmoving. It was a mere white dot at such a distance, but over time, it grew, and imperfections of black, white, and gold became more apparent with each passing moment.

The three of them stared at the incoming spacecraft for a long while without saying a word. No one complained about the wait. Regardless of how many times they had looked into the expanse of space or the rolling Selas landscape, they never failed to be awed.

“Druger,” Raitrin said, breaking the silence. “Is the ship off course? Shouldn't it be higher? It looks like it is going to fall short of the landing pad.”

Druger tried to raise his hand to his chin in thought—something he often did in habit—but was hindered by his helmet and settled for placing it at the base of the visor instead. “Hmm. You may be right. Let me check.”

He typed on his panel again. “I need someone in the control module ASAP.”

“I'm here,” came the commander's voice. “What do you need?”

“Check the shipment's trajectory.”

Several moments passed without a word from the commander. Martin swapped glances with both Raitrin and Druger. The mo'ken girl shrugged as best she could inside the restrictive suit.

“Uh, Eirene?” Druger started.

“Oh, for Pana's sake. Give me a minute,” the commander boomed back. “All right. Yes, it does seem that the spacecraft is off course.” She paused for another moment, then, “Mission Control, come in. This is Eirene Hasmeadow calling Mission Control. Do you copy? Over.”

Martin's headset crackled and a man's voice came on the line. “Affirmative, Hope, this O'brien City Control Center, we hear you. Over.”

“Mission Control, check your damn trajectory!” Eirene yelled. Raitrin cringed at the volume. “The Rhea spacecraft is coming in too hot. It's going to undershoot the targeted drop-site. Over!”

“Roger, Hope. We have been monitoring the trajectory, and everything looks fine on our end. Can you confirm your predictions? Over.”

The commander growled over the microphone. “My instruments are blaring red at me, and I have three crew members standing in the hangar informing me that the shipment is going down right before their eyes!”

As the commander continued arguing with Mission Control, Martin watched the automated craft glide through the inky void of space, floating toward them, until it disappeared behind a distant rise in the gray landscape with a splash. There was no explosion, but dust and rock filled the minimal atmosphere, creating a natural beacon for them to follow.

“You know what, Mission Control, never mind,” the commander said, cutting off the man on the other end. “The spacecraft just went down, and we are heading out to do cleanup and salvage. Hope out.”

“W-What?” the man stuttered. “Wait—”

“All right, crew. Change of plans. I'll be down there in a minute to join you,” said Eirene. She sounded pleased at being right, regardless of the fact that their necessary shipment of supplies had just crash landed. When she left the airlock, a wide smile could be plainly seen through the visor. She was delighted, and he found that unsettling.

The four of them rode the lone moon buggy out of the hangar onto the dusty plain, leaving trails of rigid tire prints that would last ten million years if undisturbed, a memoir to their existence. Gray hills rose around them in all directions. Every crater held a pitch black shadow that was a stark contrast against the lunar soil. Martin felt like a kid, bouncing along in the buggy's trailer, each bump bringing them closer toward the beacon of smoke.

After half an hour of ups, downs, and jostled riding, they reached what was left of the crashed spacecraft. The craft itself would never fly again, but most of the cargo seemed intact, though scattered along the ground. The crates were reinforced plastic containers, and most of their contents were pouches or equipment parts that were all durable.

“Looks like it still tried to land,” Druger said, pointing to the portions of the landing airbags that lay strewn around the crash site. “Probably what saved the cargo crates.”

Raitrin nodded. “I guess we got lucky.”

“All right, quit gawking and start loading up the buggy,” the commander ordered. She grabbed the nearest crate and thrust it into place in the buggy's short trailer.

“This is going to take several trips,” Martin said. With the crates on board, there was only enough room for two people. “Do we have enough oxygen for that?”

Eirene sighed. “We can take shifts bringing the stuff back, all right? Now start working.”

Each trip of loading, travel, unloading, and return took over an hour and a half. There were quite a few crates, and the bulky gloves only added to the problem. Normally, they would only have to walk from the landing field to the cargo hold. When there were a few remaining crates, Raitrin returned from the base on her own for the final load.

“Where is Eirene?” Druger asked as the buggy pulled up.

Raitrin took her time getting out of the buggy before she replied. Her face was twisted in a scowl. “The bloody woman decided she's done for the day.”

Martin felt his jaw drop. “Wow,” he said slowly. It was all he could muster in his stupor over the gall of Eirene's actions.

“I know. I knew she was a lazy bitch, but this just takes it to an all-time low. She thinks that because she is the commander that she can do whatever she wants.”

Druger appeared calm, but his tone said otherwise. “There will be words when we get back.”

As Martin hefted a crate onto the back of the buggy, he smiled at the thought of Druger chewing out the commander. The man was usually reserved. It would be a treat to watch, considering that the commander would not have a leg to stand on.

“Why's this one blue?” Raitrin said as she slid a small crate out from under some of the wreckage. Most crates were black or white; white contained equipment, and black contained supplies.

“I don't know. I've never seen a blue crate.”

“Just load it up. We can check it out when we get back,” Druger said as the voice of reason.

Martin checked the display on his wrist. Forty minutes of air remaining on the meter. Plenty left for the return trip, but not much beyond that. Maybe enough for unloading. He could always pause and grab a new air tank if necessary. During the entire bumpy ride back to base, he kept a wary eye on the display. It made him nervous, cutting it that close. If anything went wrong, such as the buggy breaking down, he would be in trouble.

They pulled into the hangar with seven minutes to spare on Martin's air supply. Too close for his liking, but he would unload as much cargo as he could before heading inside. Raitrin and Druger could finish up when the time came.

“What do we do with this blue crate?” Raitrin asked. Druger started unloading and did not answer. He was not in charge, but they looked to him when the commander was not around.

“Just leave it in the buggy for now,” Martin said. “We can take it in with us after we are done.”

The white equipment crates were either placed inside an access panel that led to the research lab or in a small section in the hanger marked off for outdoor replacements and upgrades. All except one of the black crates were placed on the far side of the hangar where consumption supplies were stored. That one would be brought inside to restock the kitchen's shelves.

Before they could finish, a warning sounded in Martin's helmet. The air meter blinked red on his display. There were only a few crates left, but they would require more time than he had.

“Guys, I'm out of air. I have to head in.”

Raitrin held up a hand. “That's fine. We're almost done here anyway.”

“Sorry,” Martin said and gave them one last glance before heading toward the airlock. Druger kept working and did not turn to acknowledge his departure. Martin was not sure if the man was irritated at having one less person, or just trying to get the job done. It was probably a bit of both. Not that Druger would say it, though.

For the rest of Waning Hope and other books in the Nihilian Effect series, go to r/KalSDavian

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About the Creator

Kal S. Davian

I am known as kalez, kalez238, and Kal S. Davian, author of the science fantasy book saga, Nihilian Effect. I love to write, and I have no plans to stop.

Go to r/KalSDavian for links and formats to all books in the Nihilian Effect series.

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