Excerpt:

Stellar Horizon Contact – Chapter II: Inspection

The crew’s resting area was located in the beta wing of the lunar space station, not far from where the exploration hangars began. As they went through the final and exhaustive medical tests required by the Confederation of Commercial Crew, Lucas decided it was time to familiarize himself with this intriguing place. It would help ease the nerves brought on by the examination, which had him genuinely worried. Surely, he was the youngest expeditionary on the Moon at the time—they weren’t going to make it easy.

He knew every street, every nook of this place; he had seen it thousands of times in readings and videos about the lunar base. There was one famous spot that was his favorite. During his visit to the lunar base, he walked through every accessible area, from bars and nightclubs to the sparse supermarkets. Nowadays, a whole industry related to the production of space food existed.

He wondered how he had never been there before; he wanted to shout to the world how he had made it. Twenty years dreaming of being here. And now everything was within reach.

He walked along what would be the main avenue, Neil Armstrong Avenue, where the shops rose like in old futuristic dystopian games. Neon-like signs simulated fluorescent tubes, which were actually screens displaying three-dimensional images, showing something that wasn’t really there. His augmented reality lenses interpreted these images, which otherwise would have been only codes written on the walls, letting him see what the lenses’ computer captured.

“Lu, I found a place to grab a drink!” shouted Jesus from across the street, his long, bony arm waving to get attention.

“Coming.”

Inside, the nightclub held a hundred people, jumping with arms in the air as if repelled by the Moon’s low gravity—a phenomenon only they could truly understand, because no human from Earth had ever danced that way.

Lucas removed his lenses and looked at the drink stand. A screen greeted him, buttons appearing to float in the glass, static in front of him. These were mere technological tricks, enabled by the lenses doing all the work. He removed the lenses to see the screen clearly, and everything became sharper. The letters were stuck to the glass, no separation at all. He chuckled inwardly; it was extremely easy to replicate, perhaps even with second-hand technology.

Still, he ordered a non-alcoholic drink, so as not to risk his tests. They drank and danced, mocking the “Moonies”—that’s what Jesus called those who lived and worked on the lunar base.

“Can you imagine?” Jesus stood on the edge of a round table surrounded by white sofas. “Getting a little gig here?”

“I’m not interested,” Lucas replied.

“But you’d have a lifetime insurance. You’d never send another CV in your life. You’d have a job feeding you for years with a month of work. Well, living down here,” said Jesus, referring to Earth.

“And would you… go back home?” Lucas asked. Jesus answered without hesitation, probably asked that question many times before.

“After this trip, you won’t see me again. I’ll live it up till I’m old.” Jesus, in his forties and believing a short space trip could grant him another forty-five years of life, spoke with misplaced certainty. Lucas knew better—impossible.

“You think so? You won’t even have enough to pay for the first round you spent all your cash on,” Lucas teased. Yet, beneath the banter, he sensed a dormant friend in Jesus.

“I guess after this, I’ll just fix some of the small tourist ships in the hangars,” Jesus said, as if his life were already solved.

“Well, cheers to that,” Lucas said, clinking glasses with Jesus, who kept his eyes on the dance floor, scouting for a young prospect.

Lucas returned relatively early, wanting to rise early. Jesus stayed behind, seeing what he could get. Their sleeping quarters were tiny bunks, just enough for a man lying down, stacked in multiple floors—an idea from the Asians, perfect for cramped lunar space.

Lucas reached his designated bunk, 309. Just by the number, he could tell the mission number. Not superstitious, but amusing to note for the captain the next day. When he lay down, sleep came effortlessly, and he only remembered waking the next day as if hours had flown by in a blink.

“Come on, Lucas, get up, kid,” said the second-in-command, moving bed to bed, waking the crew. “We have the exam now.”

“Hopefully you don’t talk so much during cryogenics…” Erick, beside Lucas, remarked. Lucas had taken the bed he desired the night before. “You were complaining nonstop last night.”

He woke slightly disoriented, for a moment thinking he was at the captain’s house in Buenos Aires, where they had stayed the previous month before heading south. Something felt off—he remembered running from something unpleasantly close. At the medical office, the dream escaped him entirely.

The facilities were highly advanced, minimalist. The walls were empty, white with indirect cold lighting—he imagined lasers hidden in the seams of long tiles. He sat, awaiting his turn; the seats were small and uncomfortable. Beside him, four people lined up: the second, Noel, Jesus, and Erick. Hundreds of candidates passed through daily; the rest of the rooms were crowded with crew.

When the screen announced his number and letter, he was ushered into a small two-by-two room. The walls were as white as outside, but the tiles smaller, lasers firing from all directions. He closed his eyes briefly as the red light blinded him; the doctor had instructed him to if needed.

Afterward, he waited to approach the counter. A relatively young girl, though older than Lucas, processed digital authorizations slowly and disinterestedly—until it was his turn.

“Aren’t you a bit young to be here?” asked the girl behind the counter. His lens translator caught it and relayed the words in Spanish. In the top-left corner, he saw her natural tongue: Slovenian.

“I don’t think so… I’ve seen older,” he said, taking the note allowing him to begin the trip, fully cleared for cryogenics.

“You’re very healthy; I could help with that…”

“Thanks, good afternoon.” He felt it was the first time someone flirted with him in such an awkward place—completely observed and monitored. He exited and waited for the rest.

“Stupid controller…!” Jesus exclaimed upon leaving.

“Next time, don’t drink before the exam…” Noel muttered to him.

“Hey, what happened?” Noel appeared upset, as if Jesus’ words had struck a nerve.

“Jesus came intoxicated. He’ll have to redo it tomorrow, slowing us down,” she replied. Lucas had come to know every gesture of hers. “I do my job and expect my teammates to take it seriously. Nothing more.”

“Relax, let’s eat.”

“All good?” Jericó approached, wandering like a civilian, though his circuits were almost exposed.

“Nothing. You?” Lucas diverted the conversation quickly.

“I understand there was a conflict with Jesus. Should I investigate further?” the droid asked inquisitively.

“Nothing for you to worry about. The team handles it.” Lucas patted Noel’s shoulder, and they walked off.

As they passed Jericó, the droid’s robotic arm gently rested on Lucas’ shoulder, surprising Noel. “I just want you to know you can count on me. Whatever happens on this trip is partly my responsibility. I need to ensure the team operates safely in near space.” Jericó blinked his eyes as if joking. “Analyzing your reaction, I see my movement was abrupt. I’ll correct it.”

Lucas moved away, thinking for a moment the droid might intimidate him—but why would a robot do that? He deferred the question for later, planning to discuss it with Maxi.

Six days had passed since the crew completed medical checks, five since Jesus repeated his. The rest of the Pampa team was ready: over ten technicians, two nurses, an extra doctor, and more supporting staff. Maxi remained mostly in the control center with Pato, rarely leaving the ship during pre-flight days.

“Erick, last inspection in an hour. Everything ready?” asked the second-in-command. Erick nodded.

“Next time, answer me, Lucas,” said the captain.

“I’m on check thirteen; all systems normal,” Lucas replied, eyes fixed on the screen displaying the ship’s fragmented layout.

“Noel, is the medical team on board?”

“All in zone three.”

“Jesus, last control check before…”

The central computer interrupted with a message. A crisp, monotone voice echoed. The crew fell silent, anxious despite repeated inspections.

“Where’s Jericó?” came the last question before a Confederation inspector entered the bridge.

A fat man with poor gait, scruffy beard, and untidy clothes for lunar station standards strode in with a lanky accomplice. Ignoring the crew, he inspected each console.

“And the prior checks…?” he asked. Lucas’ translator relayed his voice in neutral Spanish. Two steps later, he reached the captain. “But it’s Max.”

“Maximiliano.” The captain was curt—clearly displeased by the visitor.

“You were let go from the Chronicle Time?” Everyone knew the captain had piloted it before, but the Australis Corporation offered him this project without hesitation.

“I completed my mission with them.”

“Yes, I read the report. I heard they offered you a handsome sum to pilot it.” He laughed, but no one joined in. “Now you’re here…” His expression shifted as he realized no one feared him.

“The check was ready two hours ago; inspection is fully prepared.” The captain subtly asserted control.

“Good.” The inspector’s face darkened, unaccustomed to such exposure. “Please review the bridge entry computer.”

The young, thin inspector exited; the door closed behind him. The constant hum of the reactor signaled the ship was ready to launch on command.

“I’ll start here,” he said, approaching Noel’s panel. “Show me vitals and secondary cryogenics.”

Lucas observed Maxi’s gaze at the inspector, almost satisfied. He smiled at the captain, who winked, then returned to the inspector. Something was off, yet oddly gratifying for Maxi—like winning a thumb war you knew you’d win.

Lucas noticed a persistent alert on turbine four. Impossible; he had checked it moments ago. Moving subtly, he tried to resolve it, but the console was locked. Pressure imbalance prevented intervention from the bridge.

“Jesus, secondary support check,” he instructed.

Spotting the error in the turbine camera feed, he saw Jericó crouched at the manual module, expertly fixing the issue. The blinking screen ceased within seconds.

“Mechanical and EVA secondary,” called a voice. Jericó gave a thumbs-up to Lucas’ camera, then vanished as if never there.

The inspector stared, unable to believe a young, inexperienced-looking boy solved the issue so quickly. He moved aside, touching various controls, finding nothing.

“Minor… issue,” Lucas replied.

“Run the check, kid,” said the inspector, visibly stunned.

Finishing navigation panel inspection, Jericó reentered minutes later, silently.

“Report: manipulation detected in left fourth turbine diagnostics. Fault resolved. No risk for launch.” Lucas remained calm; his glance at Jericó analyzed not only utility but intent—would he always assist them this way?...

..."

–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at https://fictograma.com/ , an open source Spanish community of writers–