They were and unequal match. Ptanga was a gold medal, Olympic wrestler. Frank was a pretty good high school wrestler. Ptanga had managed to fuse the Mesakin Nuba style of his ancestors with the Greco-Roman style of amateur wrestling. Frank Lettered in high school and fared well in college. Still, these little bouts serve a distraction, not only for them, but for the rest of the station's staff.
The moon’s lesser gravity also made the sessions interesting. Six months of practice had improved their use of momentum. The awkward dance had become graceful. Ivana showed her approval by singing a tune from some forgotten Russian opera. Her parents disagreed about her future. Father felt Ivana would make an excellent cosmonaut; Mother thought ballet was best. Being Russian, they were practical, so they entered Ivana into both. She proved to be a fine dancer, a better singer, and a brilliant mathematician. Dancing had helped to improve her balance on the moon whose lesser gravitation tended to throw a person’s inertia into walls and ceilings and even the floor.
The Maxwell lunar observatory had been nested in a crater just north of the South Pole. The station was just low enough for protection from the brutal solar winds yet position to take advantage of those winds.
Franco saw an opportunity and launched for the back of Ptanga’s thighs, lifting him up for pile drive to the floor. Ptanga took advantage of his own momentum, kicked his feet up, over compensating for Frank’s. Ptanga touched the floor and added to his inertia, twisted around, and added all his momentum to Frank’s sending him with a resounding crutch to the floor (sound effects courtesy of Ivana).
Frank relaxed, suggesting defeat as Ptanga landed in a telamon pose. They were both winded, though Ptanga looked like he could use a couple more rounds.
“How do you do that?”
Ptanga smiled, a stark contrast from the ceremonial scars on his brow and cheeks. “You, a paratrooper, need asked me?” Ptanga’s voice was deep and rich like a southern Gospels singer, his dialect reflecting his British schooling. He was a physician for this crew, and his bedside manner was relaxed and informal.
“Yeah, but … I never did that in a dive …”
“Elementary physics my dear Frank. Gravitation and momentum … I think you don’t think this through. Let me show you.” Ptanga offered his hand and Frank accepted it.
“Maybe later. Is that banana-nut I smell?”
“Mine!” Came the voice from the mess Hall. It was the voice of Diana Parker (the astrophysicist).
“Aw! Come off it, there should be a couple of MRE’s with banana-nut in it …” Frank said as he began to follow the fragrance.
“You come in here sweaty and in wrestling ’tards and expect me to give up my one last piece …!”
“Aw! Go on, I want some, too.”
“Naw, last one, I checked.”
Frank sat against the table, akimbo, as he feigned disgust, “and to think, only three weeks left on this shift …” as he moved into his best Jack Benny “… and already were out of the best stuff.”
Diana gave him that impishly bright smile and she tossed the last piece in her mouth, trying to smile innocently as she chewed. The vision of the imp was greatly improved by her hair whose tips were bleached blond and the roots fire red — hair coloring forbidden because of the enclosed environment.
Rafael Whitestar, Mission commander, into the mass mess, poured a cup of coffee, zapped in the microwave, and left is of no one would notice. After twenty-two weeks together the six had gotten to know each other as only sailors on the high seas did a couple centuries ago.
Frank went to the quarters to get cleaned up. Ptanga was leaving the shower chamber as Frank was stripping. Ivana returned to her station check the code one more time. With Rafael up (his father was a Shoshone, and a big fan of Ninja Turtles, naming all his kids for them) the station began to enter “work is usual” cycle.
The code was certified clean, yet Ivana remembered the operating systems the company published had more bugs than the Amazon. So, she checked, and added semicolons and parentheses or needed. Even though she felt this project was a waste of time, she always had a way of making such projects time well spent. She would chalk at up to Russian pragmatism, and strengthen her Russian accent to say, “vit Russian vinter, we have no time to play vit ourselves.” Then she would walk away while adolescent “I’m not supposed to laugh at that” snickers would pass through the crowd. She had a sense of humor that took some … getting used to, like the Russian summer, “blink and you’ll miss it.”
Diane, whose breath still smelled the banana-nut, sat next to Ivana with a napkin bearing another piece. Diana pushed the piece to Ivana, “this was second to last piece,” she said with a smile. Ivana thanked her.
“Do you think anyone will answer?”
“Not likely,” Ivana said. “If anyone could answer, not likely either, the message would be mangled. And even if they could figure out the original, would they know how to assemble it?”
“Just imagine … what it would be like to get a single like it from somewhere out there. Wouldn’t it be romantic? Some exotic prince …”
“Shall I pull up the log? Or will you add to your saga?”
“Oh hush! Where is your sense of romance?”
“Last zummer,” she said in that Hollywood Russian accent, “tree days at 65 degrees. Brutal heat waves melted Romancia down de river.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, it was two days and only some cold shoulders warmed enough to increase the population.” They laughed.
“My Italian grandfather was a boy when Mussolini was ousted. He told me, ”girl, believe nothing your heart cannot see.” Wise man, he was.
“I think someone’s heart needs to open its eyes.”
“How’s your progress? I-NASA is wanting to know if we are ready today.”
They both jumped. After twenty-two weeks together Rafael could still fade in from the air. He seemed to take sadistic pleasure in invoking the “flight” response from people.
Ivana and Diana glanced at each other as Ivana said, “the code is clean, so far. I am compiling it now, sir.” She took a nibble of the banana-nut to calm her heart. “I’m going to aim it at a dense patch floating through the Ört cloud. Then, even when we don’t get an answer in a hundred years, Diana can examine the contents with the return signal as I assess its quality.”
“Good show. We can shine a light on a yellow snow ball. And give them aliens no extent of an idea of what we want.” Rafael had half a smirk that suggested that a nasty retort was dancing through his head.
“What aliens?” Ivana asked.
“You know, the ones who don’t look like us.”
“Well then, the fish in the Caspian Sea will need to revolve some before they respond. This signal should have gotten back from a trip around the galaxy by then.”
“Good, we can invite them to a salmon bake, then.” Then, he offered, “Just don’t offer to accept any collect calls.”
Ivana switched to her Hollywood Russian to say, “Who would want to collect calls? They just clutter up the place.” She smiled, as she dropped the last morsel of banana-nut granola into her mouth.
The signal from the airlock turned amber indicating someone was passing through. Frank had been outside realigning the new communications array. Rafael moved to the airlock to help Frank out of his suit.
“Looks like a good time to test that signal,” Frank said as his head cleared the helmet. “The solar winds are down and the lunar mists are settling down a bit.” It was Frank — who did most of the work out in the open — who notice the “mist” and called them that. They were a mix of the lunar dust and water that was kicked up by the solar wind. He was also the one to make the connection. He was that on the planes just short of the South Pole resting during a Terran eclipse. He watched as the moon drifted into Earth’s shadow, and saw the mists lay down with them.
It was evening on the small island. The Queen Mother was finishing a small tasty mammal. This planet was almost used up. Her hive had as much water as their ship could carry, as well as raw material and some life-forms to keep them. But this planet had nothing more to offer her or her hive.
She watched the light blue sun set over an ocean that was now largely void of life. Some prokaryotes would be left due to their invocation of severe histamine reactions among her hive.
Her abdomen swelled as she breathed deeply. Soon, they would be obliged to leave this world. No other planet in this system had much to offer, not even a gas giant for her to refill her fuel reserves. Her engineers had informed her they had enough energy for a megaparsec trip. Astrophysics was unsuccessful in finding a suitable source, or another potentially life-filled planet.
She surveyed the stars with a spark of hope. She had heard a roomer that other Denlabby hives had been defeated by a small but intelligent army on some other planet. She toyed with the idea of trying where they had failed. No, not enough fuel.
She was roused from her quiescent reflection by the scuffling of three nymphs fighting over a small rodent. Her mandibles clicked in displeasure at the interruption. She turned her head to see who it was just in time to see a large female twist the head off one of the males.
Well, The Queen-mother mused, at least she will eat well tonight. She took a deep breath and whistled through her gill slits. When they looked at her, she signaled them to take it elsewhere.
She considered the fate of her people. These scuffles were fine, even entertaining at times. Her experience has taught her that if they did not find new resources soon, her hive would start eating each other, then their ship. Maybe, that is really what happened with that other hive. She has known of times when Denlabby nymphs will become so hungry, they begin to eat the ships’ hull. If this happens in deep space, all can be lost. She did not savor the idea.
She reached down with her foreleg and picked up a com-link, passed it to an arm and touched a button. Holding it in the middle of her thorax to get the best pick up of Mandibular clicks and gil-slit grunts and whistles, she said, “What is your progress on finding a new planet to feed on?”
“We have only surveyed half the sky from her, ma’am.”
“Get a move on. Have some of your children help, or I will eat some of them. We haven’t much time.”
The engineer was agonizing over the thought of his children being eaten. “Yes, Ma’am”
The Queen mother huffed, It will take a miracle.
Three men and two women were sitting on a stage. Anyone viewing the monitor might have expected Madonna to start her interviews at any moment. The old Tibetan was dressed in a monk’s orange and saffron, and viewed the monitor with quiet anticipation. He had presented I-NASA with a yack-butter statuette from the 16th Dalai Llama. The Bishop sitting next to him (Ivana was still unclear as to what religion he represented) kept looking to his watch, as if he left something on the stove. Next to him was Rafael’s father, eying one of the ladies next to him. (Rafael was hopping he got the red head … be good for him.) The lady they were ogling had on more jewelry than the queen’s treasure, with a body build to support all that weight, and more. In stark contrast was the Muslim representative, dressed in a modest but fashionable dress and a scarf that complimented her dark, African face. These five were at I-NASA’s press room at the New head quarters at China Lake, California. The ocean levels had risen after the impact of a comet off the antarctic cost. The facilities at Cape Canaveral had become flooded, and Houston was promising the same. So, NASA moved their head quarters and reincorporated as the International Aeronautics and Space Agency (Owning to the international investment). The five members of today’s panel were meant as a “Token of Earth’s good will as we venture once more into the unknown frontier. Will anyone answer? What would we do if they did?” The commentator made the whole thing sound like the beginning of that talk show.
Ivana was chomping at the bit. Ceremony was all fine and well, but why did they need her? So, she sat there, working through a more entertaining mathematical theorem concerning quantum wave forms. She was engrossed in her meditations when Rafael touched her on the shoulder, making her jump. The time had come for her to press the button. She did that with all the ceremony of a slug digesting a tomato.
Ptanga smiled a litter, then mused allowed, “This is the Galactic Telegraph and Telephone. The number you have dialed is out of service …” The crew laughed as did the Tibetan monk.
Rafael tapped the “Earth-Band” monitor, “When can we see the Olympic female wrestlers? They should be on about now.”
Diana was sitting at her monitor with a confused look developing on her face. “Ivana, when did you say we should get telemetry from that signal?”
“About Half-an-hour, Why?”
“It’s been fifteen minutes and I am already picking up some of that telemetry.”
“Maybe the operator at GTT was wrong,” said Ivana, who stepped behind Diana as she paged through several GUI windows. “It looks like part of the signal has been reflected already.”
“The spectrograph is unlike anything we know about. Maybe a new element?”
“It looks really red-shifted, more than would be expected from testing the new signal.”
“This will take some time to assess. Commander Whitestar, Could you ask permission for collaboration from the Arizona Institute of Technology?”
“Right, I’ll get right on it. Guess Ivana was right, this would be worthwhile.”
The blue sun was just rising over the horizon. A young male was standing, tentatively and stressed, for the queen-mother to allow him to approach. She was a little hungry, but her instincts told her children would not be a good idea, just now. So, She toyed with the male to keep him near while her hunger grew.
She gnawed idly on a branch as she considered the situation. Her hive might just end on this barren rock. She wondered if this planet hopping was the best way. Her kin had eaten everything on their home world when a star ship landed on their planet. This sparked a new wave as her people assessed and copied the technology. Sometimes, they found a world with technologies they could adapt and employ. The Queen-mother had come to wonder why her scientists could not invent any such thing.
Her quiescence was interrupted by the approach of a young technician. She was so young, she still had her wings, just older than a nymph. The technician stood at a respectable distance as she presented her report. “We have received a signal from a world a kiloparsec away.”
Sentient life, with a sure sign of technology. The Queen-mother told the technician to order the gathering, and to plot a course. She then jumped onto the waiting male, and before he could get into position, she snapped his head off, and began to eat it. The Technician had a disappointed look on her face. The Queen-mother did not care, and waved the technician to hurry with her chores. A signal of this nature suggested technology her ship could use. The male’s abdomen continued to undulate violently as the queen-mother tore a foreleg off, and sucked the flesh out.
At last … a miracle!
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