Yuna Asada - Tome 1 E-Book

Ruchet Vincent

• Herausgeber: Publishroom
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Yuna Asada
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 541

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

2058. Yuna Asada is assigned to Paris, an agonizing space station in solar orbit. Destined for an extraordinary fate, she will be thrust into a planetary conflict reaching far beyond the galaxy. Faithful to ancestral tradition and a discreet heroine of the story, will she find the strength to survive in a universe where each side imposes its truth?

"Another World" tells the story of 12 unique and charismatic people, going against a guild oppressing its worlds. Their stories will intertwine and allow us to discover Yonn, Taranis, Ehlo and Eve, four planets also trying to undo these power games and survive, no matter what.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Born in Ollon on 12 February 1969, Vincent Ruchet was influenced from an early age by Temps-X and other novels of the past, which led him to slip into the initiatory world of science fiction. An adventurer with a passion for extreme journeys, his collections are characterised by their use of real-life stories. Whether crossing the Sahara, visiting a city lost in the Cambodian forest or diving on shipwrecks in the China Sea, his passion for discovery remained intact throughout his life. A science enthusiast, he built and flew experimental aircraft, not forgetting his roots in Japanese martial arts. Leaving behind the hustle and bustle of his technical profession, he radically changed his path by immersing himself in the fiction of his saga and its various volumes.

Leseprobe

Cover

Copyright

Publishroom Factorywww.publishroom.com© Vincent Ruchet– Yuna Asada, Another World, ©Vincent Ruchet 03.03.2025 –

ISBN : 978-2-38625-820-6

Le Code de la propriété intellectuelle interdit les copies ou reproductions destinées à une utilisation collective. Toute représentation ou reproduction intégrale ou partielle faite par quelque procédé que ce soit, sans le consentement de l’auteur ou de ses ayants droit, est illicite et constitue une contrefaçon, aux termes des articles L.335-2 et suivants du Code de la propriété intellectuelle.

Title page

Vincent Ruchet

YUNA ASADA

ANOTHER WORLD,FIRST BOOK

Translated from French by Lucy Turnbull

Proofreading by Soyia

This book is dedicated to Soyia.

Glossary

A multi-world story needs to be full of engaging and charismatic characters. An introduction to some of the most famous ones will help the confused reader.

Akram Abou Suleiman (A.K.): a fallen professor of Lebanese descend, with an imposing build (1.90 m) and dark skin by his origins. Akram is a wounded man, extremely competent and also a pilot. An adventurer that nobody and nothing can stop.

Arthur Lemay: an American general, he is his only hero (any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental). Bloodthirsty and unstable, he is the product of a long tradition of his country’s best military training centres.

Ava Barr: one of the first Alphans, with her long legs and full body tattoo, she is instantly recognizable. Ava is particularly adept at strategy and augmented-reality cyberporn.

Asii: an android commissioned on Paris (Asymmetric System Interactive Intelligence). Sometimes nicknamed the steel maiden. What makes her exceptional is her ability to adapt or better, to anticipate.

Bob Mieville: discreet hero of the story, gifted with multiple skills, but nowhere an engineer. He is an excellent pilot who just lacks a bit of luck. Bob is the kind of guy who jumps head first, regardless of the consequences. He could be compared to a 20th-century character called McGyver.

Chandni Laqma: has entered the story without authorization, appearing by enchantment. Sits in Eve’s government and soon becomes a prominent member of the resistance.

Jacques De Bon: Commander in the moon, his ultimate dream was to end his military career watching porn at home on the Moon. The epitome of an anti-hero, he never imagined the adventure to come. Filled with vices and weaknesses, his imposing belly defines his character.

Kim Eun: Korean spy under the orders of the American government, she’s versatile and efficient in her missions. Sensing the end of her career after a series of impossible missions, Kim has always found the right path, dictated by her survival instinct.

Sunny-Ann Eun: Kim’s daughter, and above all a means of leverage towards her Korean spy mother.

Kurt Steinman: He has been assigned to the command of Paris Solar Station, for better or worse. A military officer who has many questions in his mind. Sometimes doing better isn’t enough.

Leila Amara: President of the Lunar Native Community (NACO). A product of war, Leila will do anything to proclaim the existence of her new world.

Soyia: a young slave working as a translator in parliament. Her suicidal tendencies will awaken in her a slumbering alter ego. She is the epitome of a submissive person who longs for freedom.

Taeko Asada: grandmother of the Asada family. Guardian of the family traditions. Aged 85. She is a teacher of the martial arts aikido, kobudo and iaido. Probably the last samurai left in this world. Rock-solid and faithful to the code of bushido, until her last breath!

Tani ya Asada: Yuna’s mother, officially working for Japan Telecom. A petite woman, 1.51 m tall, she finds herself thrust into an adventure she could have done without. She will discover hope in her forced exile.

Yoshiro Watanabe: transmission officer on Kirishima, a Japanese submarine base. Reluctantly, he took the rank of captain on a mission that could be considered historic. An unshakeable sense of duty and nerve propel him into the heart of a shattered Federation.

Yuna Asada: the story’s heroine and main character. A 37-year-old Japanese nuclear engineer based in Paris. She has been religiously practicing martial arts according to her family’s traditions. She has a strong character, steadfastly unpolluted by the Westernization of Asia.

Words and definitions used:

AI: artificial intelligence.

Akala: a particularly endearing Taranian feline. With two antennae as an adult and a long tail, it supposedly has an uncanny ability to accurately predict complex situations.

Attitude: a spacecraft attitude is how it is placed, the three-dimensional orientation with respect to a specified frame.

Badha: Badha mist. City dedicated to the pleasures of love on Ehlo, in its perpetual mist.

Baffle: cone of silence at the stern of a submarine. A place where hydrophones cannot pick up a pursuer due to the sound of its own propeller.

Beacon: light or radio beacon fitted to a station.

Betty: pilot’s jargon. A synthetic voice announcing aircraft malfunctions.

Biostasis: see stasis.

Breaker: resettable fuse used in aeronautics.

Budo: Japanese martial arts.

Bushido: Way of the warrior. Code of moral principles that samurai were bound to follow

CC: command centre (jargon).

Comms: abbreviation for radio communication.

NACO: Lunar Native Community.

Cream (the bird): (aeronautical slang) the act of crashing an aircraft and scattering its parts.

Unlash: aeronautical jargon, action of detaching oneself (to unclasp the seatbelt).

Downdate: installation of an older software, when you revert a system to a previous state of operation.

EFIS: Electronic Flight Instrument System: multifunction display used in aeronautics.

Tail fin: set of fixed and mobile parts making up the tail of an aircraft.

ETA: Estimated Time of Arrival.

EVA: Extra Vehicular Activity. Exit from a spaceship in a spacesuit.

Exoskeleton: external skeleton into which a human being is inserted to gain strength, move in space, etc.

Stream: evolution of what we called the Internet.

Fukai Uchyu: literal translation of “deep space”.

“G” or Gravity: the measurement for the force of acceleration. One ‘G’ is equivalent to the Earth’s gravity. Three ‘G’s represents three times the weight. A person’s stance has a strong influence on their ability to bear this load.

Gomennasai: literal translation of “pardon”.

Getas: traditional Japanese wooden sandals.

Ground (to): (aeronautical slang) the action of preventing a machine from flying.

Hai: literal translation of “yes”.

Hakama: traditional clothe worn to practice martial arts, to hide the movement of the feet, usually black.

Holographic orb: since space is three-dimensional, a standard map takes the form of a sphere created by lasers, essential for navigation in space.

Hunter-Killer: submarine specialised in hunting and killing, extremely effective in this type of task.

Iaido: samurai art of killing by drawing a sword. In everyday life, while sleeping, eating, etc. A samurai (servant) had to be able to directly eradicate an assailant. Direct, precise and extremely effective, are the best adjectives for this art.

Inhibitor: device enabling slaves to leave the authorized perimeter (red line) without cardiac arrest.

Inop APU: Inoperative auxiliary power unit.

Kaiten: Japanese suicide submarine used during World War II. Generally, a single-seater or two-seater sub, of very basic construction. They were dropped from a carrier submarine close to a target, in preparation for their final run.

Kanee: Taranian turtle.

Keisatsu: literal translation from Japanese “police”.

Kham: unofficial currency used in the Constellation. Our equivalent would be a gold coin.

Khara: literal translation from Arabic, “shit”.

Kiai: deep cry, used to increase the energy carried by a blow. It is one of the breathing patterns taught in martial arts.

Kirishima: literal translation of “misty island”. The island has an underwater base.

Kissaki: tip of a katana blade, wakizashi or tanto (knife).

Kobudo: armed part of aikido generally performed with a boken (wooden sword), bo (long or short stick) and more rarely naginata (halberd) and of course katana.

Kusso: insult, literally “shit”.

Lagrange point: libration point. Position in space where the gravity of two or more stars is identical, i.e. they cancel each other out.

Mobile: armoured suit specially designed for portal passage. It opens into two parts for insertion, with the scent of the previous user as a bonus.

Moebius loop: the image of an endless loop. The simplest image is of a snake biting its own tail, an endless vicious circle.

Monte Haemus: lunar mountain range.

Moover: fast sidewalk used in Alpha, Paris, Seva & Yankee.

Nagareboshi: literal translation of “shooting star”. In the story, it is a protective laser network, the bulwark of the Japanese nation.

Neh: translation from Japanese “isn’t it?/doesn’t it?”

Neko: literal translation from Japanese of “cat”.

Nose-art: painting on the nose of an aircraft, usually a suggestive pin-up.

Nest: Alpha’s city command post.

Nymph: experimental weapon/vehicle developed in Paris. It is spherical and with a coarse metallic appearance, with the ability to cloak itself and disappear into subspace.

Ohashi: chopsticks.

Okaasan: literal translation of “mother”.

Onegashimas: literal translation of “please”.

Paris: experimental laboratory in solar orbit.

CP: command post (jargon), similar to CC.

Ronin: mirror satellite used to extend the range of Nagareboshi, the Federation’s laser network.

Rudderpedals: the pedals on an aircraft that control the rudder.

Ryokan: traditional Japanese inn where guests sleep on rice-straw tatami mats.

Sakura: Japanese cherry blossom which symbolises a time of springtime magic.

Seiza: sitting position on the knees, traditional in Asia and Japan.

Sensei: master, teacher.

SEVA: early solar laboratory, declared lost following a nuclear accident.

Shintaku: oracle, seer. The one in the story is also responsible for maintaining the temple.

Shinzen: small shelf, usually with a photo of the master to be greeted and devoted as you enter the tatamis.

Shoo: to say, “what?”

Stasis: technique consisting in slowing down an organism’s functions, in preparation for long journeys into space, thus reducing the need for food and the risks of space madness.

Sumimasen: literal translation of “excuse me, pardon me”.

Tameshigeri: art of cutting. Practiced with a katana on tatami mats made of rolled, damp straw, simulating the density of a human body.

Tatami: thick straw mat covering the inside of martial arts halls and Japanese traditional homes.

Tebetania: a submerged Yonian city, full of vice and those seeking hedonistic pleasures.

Tokamak: magnetic confinement chamber using plasma physics to produce energy. This is the principle of nuclear fusion.

Tori: wooden arch or gate, usually marking the entrance to a sacred place.

USS Andrew Johnson:United States Ship. An authentic feat of six shots on goal was achieved during the Second World War on the giant Japanese aircraft carrier Shinano, by the American FishArk.

Voloptera: giant Taranian bird that could be compared to a pteranodon.

Wakarimashita: literal translation of “understood”.

Yankee: lunar base of the Eurasian Federation.

A few important dates

2036, human expansion takes off into space. A permanent lunar base and a martian draft base are built.

2046, Russia withdraws and remains discreet about its activities. It draws its resources from the international market, selling its technology unscrupulously to the highest bidder.

2047, an unprecedented civil war breaks out in China. The country virtually disappears from the international scene.

2048, the solar-powered orbital station SEVA is declared lost.

2049, America, on the verge of bankruptcy, sells its lunar base to the Eurasian Federation with great fanfare.

2050, a cold war breaks out between the Eurasian Federation and the United States of America. Russia, newly proclaimed neutral, stays on the sidelines, but makes the most of its advanced technologies.

2051, construction begins on Paris in lunar orbit, then four years later, the station is placed in solar orbit as planned.

2054, the United States of America annex Mexico, Guatemala and Honduras. Gold, nickel, silver and copper are added to the stockpile of strategic materials.

2057, President Becker puts America back on its feet with an iron fist. Looting and rioting are solved with the ‘57 martial law. International experts are unanimous: their rapid rise to power could not have been achieved without substantial outside help.

2061, our story begins.

« You’re not born with courage… It comes with the obstacles.

Chapter 1 Another time

YunaAsada

“Bang, you’re dead! I’ve cut your head off again! Forgetting your guards, you young fool, neh?”

“Grandma, it’s Buddha, he scares me.”

“No, we made it this big to reassure you, not to scare you. Come on, let’s do it again! Come on, en garde! I’m going to attack you and you’ve got to protect yourself, then you follow up with your kata as you’ve learned it.”

Kamakura, Japan. The imposing fifteen-metre Buddha was the backdrop for the morning training session between the master and her pupil. As the day wore on, the sun was already proudly shining at a temperature above 30°C, making the exercise strenuous. Accompanying the sun, the traditional August humidity added a heavy, palpable atmosphere to the scene.

Taeko was wearing her traditional pink kobudo outfit with white flowers and her dark blue hakama. Meanwhile, Yuna wore a silk ensemble, proudly armed with her 9 years of age and an eighty-centimetre training stick.

The marble parterre still radiated the heat of the previous day, bringing something mythical to the place, with its dark gray colour and imperfect texture. Surrounded by its bamboo forest, the Buddha, set in an enclosure from another time, was lulled by the chirping of crickets, a symbol of summer in progress. There was also the forewarning music of tourists for the still-closed stalls lining the ends of the shrine. Selling the kind of bargains that, of course, upset the locals.

“Well, we’ll have to be on our way, as the first visitors will be arriving soon and the guard will be in trouble.”

“Grandma, why is Buddha so big?”

“Because Buddha, before he was Buddha, was called Siddhartha and sought happiness. At first, he was skinny, had nothing and wasn’t happy, so he thought it was better to be fat and rich, but that wasn’t any better. It was only when he heard music that he understood that life is a like a scale. If the string of the instrument is too tight, the music will not be beautiful, and if it is not tight enough, the music will also not be beautiful. It was at this point that Siddhartha realised his path lay in balance and not in extremes.”

“It’s a bit complicated, Grandma Taeko.”

“Yes, but you’ll soon understand, Yuna chan.”

*****

Lying on her bed, admiring the Dantean solar spectacle, Yuna was lost in thought. Predominantly yellow, turning an unbearable red in front of her personal bay window, she admired the infinite ballet. She extended her arm holding the remote control and activated the intensity setting: 2 points less. It was too painful during these busy periods. Next menu: ventilation, the classic beep saying “I’m already at maximum”, as always. That was why nobody wanted a room where breathing was so hard.

Thirty-seven years of age, with her small stature of 1.58 m and only 46 kg, she consumed little oxygen, which had given her the right to occupy the station’s largest room. It was also the most poorly ventilated: a big, beefy male working in the greenhouses would have felt sick in less than ten minutes in such a room. Being small has its advantages, neh? Still four hours to go before resuming duty and now that everything was under military control, punctuality and being devoid of initiative were hardly an incentive.

Well, just enough time to rest and get back into shape, but not with my bladder in such a state, she thought. Lazily, Yuna pulled her feet out of her comforter and touched the ground with apprehension. The first touch was a cold bite. The second allowed her to locate her slippers and stand up effortlessly. Her slightly rounded bedroom measured over six metres by three, with a clutter of crates and other odds and ends intruding on her privacy. It was usually “just as a favour” and also “for a few days” that the invasion began. The microscopic toilet-shower was straight ahead, between her bed and the labyrinth of potentially dangerous stored objects… Especially with her eyes glued shut!

Yuna turned on the dimmed light with her remote and made her way into the small room, following her pilgrim’s path to sit on an equally cold stainless-steel bowl. With a sigh, her mind wandered back to her real home: her house in Kamakura and its luxurious heated Japanese latrines.

For several minutes, she mused in a semi-comatose state. She smiled as she recalled how she had struggled with the voice system in her room, because she was used to talking in her sleep. Many times, Yuna found the TV, light, heating and intercom activated in the early hours of the morning, and felt her privacy compromised.

Getting up, she locked the toilet bowl with its watertight safety lid and activated the flush. A green light lit up on the wall-mounted matrix with a smiley face, and the level rose by two marks in the oxygen production system dusty as ever, but simply vital. Back under the still-warm comforter, back into her thoughts with a pleasant return to sleep. Her mother, always at her post, and her father, who had disappeared during the war. Her home, a haven of peace, and her grandmother Taeko with her garlic recipes from the garden. Nao, her cat, who would have forgotten her by now and was getting on in years. It was a peaceful, comforting existence of good times to hold on to in this infinite space. All this seemed so lost, so far away now…

Akram Abou Suleiman

“Hey, Steve, need a hand! Give me a size 8 wrench and a size 5 screwdriver”, asked Akram in a weary voice.

No answer.

“Steve, I need tools and I’m in a bad place, khara!”

“Hold on, man! Did you see the March playmate? Phew! She’s got some legs, that one. Yeah, I’d like to pay that “Miss Mars” a visit.”

“Khara, if I come down, you’re going to swallow your magazine!”

“Uh, yes, Akram, I’ll bring them over, don’t get angry.”

Perched on his ladder and his chest contorted in the ceiling’s technical access, Akram held out his left hand, waiting for the metallic feel of the tools he’d been asking for. Come to think of it, this job was almost akin to prestidigitation: checking tightenings without seeing the components, deep inside a space shuttle, was a true miracle.

“Who’s the bright engineer who designed this piece of crap for me, a Frenchman no doubt, shoo?”

“Don’t forget you’re French, A.K.”

“Yeah, some days I have regrets, khara!”, he grumbled.

A sore back and a viscous liquid starting to run down his hand made him swear again.

“No really, they should sharpen the plates directly in the factory, that way we’d be systematically injured at every maintenance,” said the Arab.

“Cheer up! We’ve only got three more crates to check before tonight, if we’re to keep to schedule. The cuckoo must absolutely leave the day after tomorrow, and you’re the champ who promised it.”

Akram Abou, 52, a structural engineer of Lebanese origin, tanned skin, almost six feet tall, solidly built, had been under a lot of pressure lately, trying to hide his marital worries in a never-ending workload. Accumulating replacements and overtime, his condition was steadily deteriorating, and he was aware of it. Steve helped him reposition his feet on the ladder and come back into the cabin.

“Can you show me this Miss Mars? Okay, let’s eat. You know what’s on the menu?”

“Yeah, pork meatballs and salad.”

“Now I’m going to commit a crime! Can I take you downtown?”

“In town, it is 42°C today, and your crappy car’s air-conditioning only works half the time!”

“Well, I’ll be off on my own, and the tasty food will only be for me !”

Akram made his way into the cluttered airlock, twisted around in the opening and climbed out through the emergency hatch in the side of the shuttle. Three metres down the ladder, the Lebanese man did a few stretching exercises to loosen up his back and headed off to the locker room to wash his hands. Lunch time at last, he thought, at the same time his stomach rumbled. As he vigorously opened his clothes locker, a photo whirled to the floor and fell in front of him. He hesitated for a moment before picking it up, and then calmly glued it back on to the mirror with great care.

Taken some fifteen years ago with his son, Allan, during a trek, they had circumnavigated the three highest mountains of the Hoggar massif, posing proudly in front of the small metal pyramid that marked the culminant point. It was a long, ill-organized week-long adventure, with dubious local food that was more laxative than protein-rich. A real pleasure in the waterless backwater.

The Hoggar was as arid as you could wish for, with red stones and purple earth as far as the eye could see, and more or less dangerous trails winding for hundreds of kilometres. A few hermits had found the means and courage to survive there in medieval conditions, with crude stone huts and extraordinary hospitality, aided by a few baksheesh. There were two local traditions: admiring the sunrise over the mountains at 5 a.m.; and leaving a wooden plaque of wishes, fixed to the pyramid, engraved on the spot with the names of the protagonists.

His eyes filling with tears, Akram lowered his gaze. He missed his son terribly, and all those years without him were like a sandbag on his shoulders, a purposeless existence. He passed through the security gates, then the secondary controls, made his way to the final guard post adjoining the parking lot and lowered his sunglasses onto his prominent nose.

“Hi Sam.”

“Tough day, Akram? Hands in place please.”

“Everything’s fine, as usual, thank you.”

“You have an invalid fingerprint on your right hand!”

“Shoo? Work accident, dear friend, and I got blood on your nice machine too.”

“All clear! The scan is positive, so you’re good to go. Bon appétit and take care.”

The furnace in the parking lot snapped Akram out of his thoughts. The unbearable heat combined with a light sand wind stung his weathered face. The door of his old Citroën opened in front of him and the integrated AI announced: propulsion active in ten seconds, battery grid at 61%, autonomy 193 km, air conditioning faulty. Akram climbed aboard in a haggard state, hit the centre console twice and the electronics corrected: battery grid at 98%, range 378 km, air conditioning active and temperature dropping.

Tani ya Asada

Nervous and late, Tani ya was searching for her keys. With her head full of extra responsibilities, the present moment was taking a back seat. Tani ya hurriedly closed the door and took a quick look around, hoping she hadn’t locked her cat in. In doubt, she opened the door again and absent-mindedly checked for the feline’s presence a second time.

“Okaasan, gardening already? Have you seen Nao this morning?”

“Uh mh! Mitenaï!”

Like every day, the imposing chauffeur-driven government sedan was waiting for her precisely outside the entrance to her property. Her black-clad gorilla, in the process of untangling himself from an overly clingy passer-by, pointed out his annoyance with a sober gesture. He shoved his precious passenger into the car and slammed the heavy armoured door.

A noiseless start, no jolting, security and counter-measures activated as he headed downtown. Forty minutes in the soft comfort of this vehicle made her nauseous. Comfortably seated, Tani ya let go for a moment, watching the scenery unfold through the thick glass. Directing her thoughts to her daughter, her pulse quickened, producing an insistent pain in her chest. Her worries and responsibility for the operations were taking their toll on her health. It could prove troublesome, given her professional position.

The breakdown in communications over the past month and the plethora of problems that had recently arisen gave her the feeling that the great wheel of the world chessboard was turning against the Federation.

Tani ya knew Paris Station and its level of security inside out. A nuclear submarine, in the event of a problem, could put its reactor on alarm, or surface by dropping its ballast and purging its ballast tanks, but not Paris: there was simply no plan “B”. It would all end in a flash that no one would see, and that’s exactly what the enemy wanted. For this reason, the station was designed to be modular and self-contained, and every major system had been tripled. The problem lay elsewhere: the supply of nuclear fuel, of which the station was greedy, was the weak point, and it was where the enemy would strike, she was sure of it.

“All this with my daughter there. Buddha, will you ever forgive me for sending Yuna there?”

Tani ya wiped her eyes and picked up her secure tablet. She activated the retinal scan and reread the message from the last transmission received by laser shot.

Red.Com##127#sadaYuna//at###mom,hea#lthy, rea##urset#shiel##stable,stationful##entfunctional, sup##sonstra#tonboard,rupt###ofstreamnex##hackYankee, ##tcantwait##new##otocole,nee##rior##aireacc####gon, mmiss##zandI#lov#######nao//.TargetYank######CoALTsec741end

She had gone through the message a dozen times, extrapolating the missing letters. Emergency laser fire was imprecise and subject to interference from the current high level of solar activity. Their only advantages were absolute transmission security, due to the short firing time and the requirement to be in line with the target.

By mistake, Tani ya slid her finger one too many times across the soft screen of her tablet, which presented her with a schematic of the orbital station in wired reconstruction, explaining its features and everything else that didn’t interest her, despite several clicks to cancel. The typical malfunction of a computer stuck in its task: Paris, a large half-sphere, using its convex part as a shield against solar radiation, dedicating its flat surface to human life in two coinciding carousels of different sizes, rotating to generate the gravity necessary for long stays. Exasperated by this computer progress, she rolled her eyes. Carelessly, she rolled the object up like a pancake and stuffed it into her bag.

Tani ya had been working at the Japan Data Uplink System (JDUS) for fifteen years, and her position put an enormous weight on her shoulders. She was responsible for all interplanetary communications and made all the decisions to ensure continuity of service. The persistent Cold War simply seemed eternal, day after day, with the same exhausting procedures. Similar to a kind of inescapable headlong rush; she had to be always anticipating new measures, to the detriment of her own health. The Japanese government was aware of this wear and tear and made life easier for the small woman in civilian clothes, giving her maximum freedom in her isolated house, which was easy to keep an eye on. Arriving at its destination, the sedan slowed down in front of a dilapidated building, perfectly blended into the overcrowded Tokyo landscape and its enticing advertisements. Oxidized and shabby in appearance, the JDUS headquarters hid a first-rate military facility.

Tani ya was an officer first and foremost, and was about to go on duty in an underground bunker where safety standards rivalled the White House’s. The sedan entered the underground garage, and the titanium-lined door locked with a thud. Cleverly concealed from the outside, the company’s walls were over a meter and a half thick, made of reinforced concrete to military standards, ensuring the transmission centre’s near-invulnerability. The spherical inner door of the anti-nuclear airlock closed on the vehicle with an ear-splitting whine. A welcoming committee, made up of three armed soldiers and an assistant, received the overdue woman.

“Hello and welcome, Mrs. Asada. We’re due in the briefing room immediately.”

“Thank you, Aoki. Is the hardware ready for the new remote antenna protocol?”

“Yes and no! We’re experiencing latency on the Fukai Uchyu satellite in lunar orbit, and you know what that means.”

“Our satellite has been hacked, neh? We’re losing our means of communication with Paris.”

Bob Mieville

Grit your teeth, 180 seconds go by fast, the flight engineer had reminded him before the ignition. Shit! It’s pushing hard, I forgot. Turbo pumps at 160 bar, attitude control on “auto”, airframe vibration at 20 Hz, at 15 we risk scattering.

“Curse these Kievs and their Russian designers, who never completed their development. To them, four successful launches out of five is a full success. Except if you’re on the fifth.”

“Bob, instead of mumbling, check the cell pressure. The sensor goes into extremes and I don’t want to burst like a balloon!”

“Yes, the acquisition is in concordance, the sensors can’t be wrong. The regulator isn’t doing its job. Close your visor and check your suit. I’ll switch to manual and decompress the shuttle.”

“Great, two days in a suit unable to piss. I’ve missed this bullshit.”

“Calm down, Nils, I’ll find the problem,” he refrained from saying as usual, “Worst case scenario, we’ve got enough air in stock for pressurization.”

“Yes, but without blowing everything up this time.”

Bob and Nils exchanged a knowing glance, the sign of a long friendship. They had shared the same flying school, the same old and rotten training crates and, above all, the same good fortune to still be part of this world.

“Let me remind you that the last shuttle fire wasn’t my fault. That’s what the investigation said, right?”

“Right, right! Except they had to take us out with the can opener, since everything electrical was busy burning and you put their brand-new shuttle on its belly. Of course they’d be annoyed.”

“Soviet technology, comrade” (Russian accent)

“I’m releasing the empty boosters in ten seconds.”

“Correct, I’ve still got 120 bars in the turbo and everything’s in the green, we’re off to the Moon, my friend!”

Bob was just finishing his vacation and was off on another eight-month “operation tour” on Yankee. The station wasn’t exactly a paradise for work, but the problems seemed further away, and the risk of sabotage lower. Above all, he felt closer to his Yuna and could see her face to face, without the cursed terrestrial censors.

Almost two years, two years without her, and the desire to stir up everything in this galaxy to find her was growing stronger by the day. Instinctively, he turned his gaze to the small fetish photo stuck near the altimeter, as a good-luck charm: Yuna posing in front of “her” Kamakura Buddha.

A professional pilot on Earth, Bob had volunteered as a space concierge on Yankee and a reserve co-pilot on the Kiev-class shuttles- highly unreliable and easily repairable vehicles, given the inexhaustible stock of spare parts due to their longevity.

“We’ve got liberation speed, and now we’ll have the sirens of deep space and other adventures to tell Yankee pussies about!” said Nilson enthusiastically.

“The main thrusters are about to shut down. Before we get to your chicks, I’d like to suggest a good shower and a couple of days in a suit, you know!”

“Toulouse just gave us the green light.”

“Okay, I’m correcting our trajectory, the battery is pre-heating and I hope it won’t catch fire this time.”

“Bob, you do the honours of igniting the ion thrusters.”

This type of thruster made no noise, no vibration and didn’t waste any fuel, but they weren’t very strong, especially compared to the ships of a millennium ago, the sails of the stellar three-masters.

“Nils, I’d like to offer you the chance to save three hours on our lunar journey. Are you interested?”

“Oh yes, I’d love to! I already feel like going to the bathroom.”

“Our hydrogen peroxide tank is full, so I suggest you use the rear attitude correctors to go faster. No one will know and we’ll correct it when we reach orbit?”

“Okay, but the procedure forbids this, and this equipment wasn’t designed for it, and…”

“I mean, you know how I feel about all this!”

Bob was particularly appreciated by his friends for his human touch, but above all for his skills, which made him a jack of all trades. If you gave him an order and didn’t immediately get a clear “YES”, it was because he was up to something in his own way. Standard-built at 6’4”, he’d done a bit of everything before the “big break”, eventually landing on Yankee. Bob was a respected figure, but on the other hand, his hot-headed nature got him into trouble time and time again.

“Toulouse confirms that only one booster returned to the launch pad, the other got destroyed.”

“Was it a surprise from our burger-eaters?”

“Erm, probably! It’s happening now. It seems to be laser fire from a stealth orbital station. The exact source is not yet known.”

“Oh! Did we just avoid them?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s more of a reminder that they’re still out there. They can’t afford to put anything into orbit anymore, so I’m leaning towards a war of attrition, Uncle Sam’s revenge version 2.0.”

“Yeah, maybe it’s also another test sequence to gauge the accuracy of their new weapon? But in that case, would they risk sacrificing their precious new satellite?”

“Maybe, or they’ll have moved it by now. It’s most likely protected by the stealth of its adaptive generator. I’ve seen some pretty amazing shows on the subject, with gizmos that change shape to always expose the most discreet part to the enemy.”

Kim Eun

She walked ungainly on Gomon Dori Street. It’s true that, with her prostitute’s get-up, she didn’t really belong in this otherwise well-to-do neighbourhood. Twisting her left foot with the clumsiness of a duck, she told herself that if she kept on exaggerating her behaviour, she’d end up really hurting herself.

Nine days had passed since her arrival on site, in the blink of an eye. The spy had set to work professionally, step by step, getting as involved as she could, as this final mission would bring her active service in enemy territory to a close. Functioning at low capacity due to the lack of recovery that had become chronic, she felt on edge and compensated for this with her spy training, which prevented any slackening that would put her on a slippery slope.

Kim had spent her first six days inspecting the daily and nightly routine of the Asada household from a comfortable distance. The task was made easier by the presence of the usual automated vehicles, bumper-to-bumper as usual in Tokyo. The active phase had begun two days ago. Carefully changing her appearance with each visit had enabled her to make progress. Sometimes, her role was as an insurance agent, sometimes as a technician reading electricity metres, and then finally as a saleswoman selling overpriced beauty products. She had also learned that:

“There was no alarm system on site. That a government could be so naive was science fiction.”

“A grandmother practiced martial arts early in the morning with a stick and spent the rest of the day gardening. Despite her age, she seemed to be in good condition and lived in a miserable shack at the bottom of the garden. It wouldn’t be too difficult to neutralize her in case of trouble.”

“The chatty housekeeper also looked after the grandmother, and left the premises every day at around 5 p.m.”

“Her target would arrive from work between 9 and 10 p.m. in a big black sedan, driven by an uninviting gorilla.”

“The bay window overlooking the garden didn’t close properly! Fault discovered when checking the electric panel.”

Kim allowed herself the luxury of letting her thoughts drift to her 4-year-old daughter back home, and mentally visualized her soothing angel face. She even perceived her little heartbeat… and then suddenly, like a red-hot iron, reality! Her target was there, 20 metres away, dead ahead.

She passed the big black sedan at 7 p.m., just as the driver opened the door in front of her target. A godsend for the built-in camera in her glasses, and a split second later, she decided to burn herself out by awkwardly accosting the driver.

“Hello, darling, do you know where 147 is?”

“Step back, please, ma’am! This is a private area.”

Kim dropped her handbag with a cry of astonishment and the contents scattered generously on the sidewalk: a tactic dating back to the dawn of time, which worked every time! The gorilla bent down with a grunt and began to pick up the mess. Of course, she didn’t follow him until half a second later, after learning that:

“The car was armoured like a tank. Its windows were practically five centimetres thick.”

“It certainly had a defence system, given the on-board electronics.”

“The driver was armed and wore body armour that protruded between his suit and pants. He was impossible to cheer up, even with a pair of panties on his nose.”

She also got up quicker and threw a micro tracer through the open window, praying that it wouldn’t land on the seat. Kim melted into an apology and kissed the driver on the right cheek leaving a lovely red mark, then slipped away, apologizing a second time to a tiny lady with a nervous gait, obviously preoccupied. Of course, Kim’s actions were suicidal, but she had acquired a certainty about her target that her employer would not fail to use.

After changing metro trains three times and taking two cabs, she finally arrived at her dingy suburban hotel. Pulling off her clothes, she slumped onto the bed with her secure phone. Kim was feeling tired and dirty this late morning. She transmitted her report to the Defence Intelligence Agency, along with her hyper-definition film, and waited for confirmation of satellite reception. To finish her work, she folded the window-side mini-antenna into its watertight protection and placed it deep into the toilet bowl, a real pleasure given the state of the device. Kim took great care to ensure that the small extraction cord remained invisible in the fake excrement.

The spy finally relaxed under a rusty shower with tiles from another century, searching for the face of her little Sunny-Ann, who had remained in the back of her mind. Lying down with the weight of her burden, she drifted off to sleep, accompanied by a tropical downpour.

Jacques De Bon

Lying nonchalantly on his sofa, he stared at the screen-wall with his big, bulging eyes, his mouth slightly ajar. His too-short T-shirt showed his enormous chest, which hung down despite the low gravity. The resemblance to a balloon filled with water and collapsing at a precise point could not be ruled out, adorned with a few crumbs of unappetizing food.

Jacques was indulging in his favourite pastime, enjoying his unlimited subscription to Interstellar Porn, and doing it well. To top it all off, he still had 397 repertoires to note down and, of course, download for his personal fetish collection, in case the links were interrupted again.

“Woohoo, what a great evening!”

Jacques wasn’t interested in skinny women; he was a round women’s man, and if a particular vice appeared, making the poses more exciting, he stored them away like a pirate with his treasure. Of course, he’d tried other headings: sadomasochistic, gay, bondage, etc. But every time he came back to “his” fetishes, it was in his genes and it made him horny.

Next directory: Shy Indian girls with 2,757 full-resolution photos! He loved Indian girls with all their jewelled nose bows and traditional tattoos on hands and arms.

Ring ding-a-ling!

“Shit, what the hell, can’t be left alone anymore,” he grumbled.

Ring ding-a-ling!

The complaint of his microwave, wanting to reject its stream of prefabricated, forcibly defrosted protein called pizza, harassed him insistently. He shifted and opened the door with pointed gentleness, seizing his loot dripping with American cheese like a lion zeroing in on its prey, awaiting its feast. Finally, with his right hand armed with a bottle of pressurized hydrogenated cream, he poured out the contents in one gulp, tongue out.

His feast ready for him, Jacques returned to his sofa, the excess cream slipping through his fingers, and sat down awkwardly. Noisily chewing his meal, he selected one photo in particular with his dirty mouse and felt an erection make itself known. Yes, this woman really was the one! He nervously clicked on the interactive link his gold session allowed: please, contact me, you are welcome, initiated a small flashing icon.

Immediate response: a new window opened and his prey, Imadhi, appeared. Then, as the pixels re-organized, they revealed a busty woman starting to squirm before his astonished eyes. She offered him an invitation in her native tongue, which intimidated him.

“A dominatrix, for sure. It’s so rare to find one!” Hastily, Jacques saved her in his XXL favourites file to find her again, just in case.

It wasn’t really what she’d said to him, but rather the tone, and oh yes, the movement of her big lips, that had made an impression. Her body glistening with massage oil continued to contort itself on his wall-screen, in an endless number of suggestive postures.

The door intercom activated with a shrill ring to his left, and Jacques’ 125 kilogramms body jolted like he had received an electric shock. Like an ice-cold shower, his second-in-command’s face materialized on the small screen, finishing a sentence the beginning of which was inaudible.

Shit, as long as… phew! He hadn’t forgotten the sticker on the intercom camera.

“Commander, this is the command centre”, he repeated, “Your presence is urgently required.”

“What’s all this about? I’m very busy at the moment, you know how paperwork is!”

“We’ve lost the telemetry on the Aldebaran halfway between the Earth and the Moon. The same goes for radar and infrared imagery.”

“Who are the pilots in charge of the shuttle?”

“Nilson and McGyver, sorry Mieville.”

“Yeah, yeah! Well, I’m on my way!”

Jacques De Bon, 52 years old, at the end of his career, worn out but appreciated by those close to him, was forever coming back to this job nobody wanted. He couldn’t get anyone to respect him, but he didn’t give a damn about that as long as he had “his” girls and enough to eat. He was particularly detached from life’s other worries and was still convinced that nobody suspected his vice for porn. Jacques usually put on an astonished face when people close to him hinted at it.

His egotistical attitude had earned him a multitude of equally inglorious nicknames, following him like flies. He had once commanded a flying school on Earth, specializing in the surgical attack of targets, and had been an excellent pilot in his day, thirty-five kilos lighter. The coup de grace to his career was a debriefing in front of an elite group of officials with an E-USB stick full of porn movies and the official films erased, of course. Without a doubt, that was the longest moment of his life.

He’d been offered this sidetrack on the Moon, to spare him the disgrace of degradation, and for his superiors above all, to assign command of a place nobody wanted in such a remote corner.

Kurt Steinman

Standing straight as a rod on his bridge, muzzle raised and proud of his cartoonish angular face, Kurt liked to sport his usual expression. It was also his way of conveying the weight of his charge: a risky command in an extremely dangerous place.

Looking at the panoramic screens in front of him, he squinted, his retinas soaked with the excess light generated by the recurrent solar flares of recent months, the source of many worries. All around him, the Paris command post was an example of efficiency and simplicity.

Six technicians behind their control consoles surrounded him like a horseshoe, managing the entire experimental station. Built into the floor like a bird’s nest, each station had its own attribution: navigation, life support, food, laboratory, shield and space surveillance. The special feature of this system was that it freed up the entire ceiling to house a 180° multitasking matrix. The unused parts served simply as lighting for the most important part of the space base.

Kurt was accustomed to giving direct, hard-hitting orders, something that caused quite a few problems on Paris, as the station was first and foremost a civilian laboratory, not a military one. The station’s 305 inhabitants were quick to remind him of this. Three hundred and five civilians and twelve goons! It was a precarious situation in such a remote and hostile location.

The command centre, located in the middle of the carousel with the living quarters, put the staff in a pleasant situation of reduced gravity. In fact, the outer ring, which was practically in a terrestrial situation, housed greenhouses and labs, directly protected by the imposing ceramic shield. Paris looked more like an orange cut in half than a conventional space laboratory.

Kurt had learned about his own nickname “Captain Kirk” after the tropical greenhouse’s depressurization scare the previous month. Made of titanium and ceramic, Paris was virtually indestructible, but when poorly made welds break, it’s all a matter of luck, especially in space.

They had had some luck, with a commander arriving out of breath on the bridge in the middle of the night, his old garnet tweed over his shoulders, Star Trek-style, provoking a fit of giggles once the alarm had passed. It was also then that he realized the error of his ways in running the station with an iron fist, and decided to let go. The idea was to create an internal government, a democratic entity that would be efficient and, above all, balanced. He wanted to anticipate the escalation he had experienced during his previous commands, fearing settlings of scores, inexplicable mistakes or disappearances in decompression chambers. This had happened many times on Yankee and many other stations.

In these parts, the traditional method of settling a dispute was the High Jump, as the soldiers jokingly called it. Afterwards, more oxygen, food and space were at hand. In short, the perfect way to solve a “problem” in thirty seconds, just long enough for the airlock to empty. So why use the term “murder” for this kind of practice, when no corpse was ever found?

Yes, he was going to do it, but where to start? He had to find a common thread, a starting point. To let go of any kind of authority was to risk mutiny, the house of cards collapsing! So he had to create another one in parallel, and then gently integrate himself into it. His main problem: I’m a soldier, I have my orders and I’ve been chosen for my obedience.

On the other hand, the commanders are a million miles away and haven’t been heard from in weeks. But they’re not sitting on five nuclear reactors with almost 2,500°C up their arses, so the priority is safety and survival, the rest will wait. As he kept on thinking on his bridge, Kurt made his decision: I’m going to create an autonomous mini-government. Yes, that’s it! And we’ll start with elections!

Akram Abou Suleiman

It was the last bite in the stench of Sokodé. He had to meet Janet Space Centre, which was 10 kilometres away, within half an hour – it was simply impossible! In addition to the miserable temperature, the smell of sewage in the vicinity was a reminder that they were indeed in this godforsaken place that didn’t exist on any map.

“Sub-Saharan Romanticism – such poetry!” Akram raised his arm to order a coffee with the bill, and then melted into more serious thoughts.

The Souk was undoubtedly the second-best restaurant in this miserable West African town. Apart from the unpleasant smells, their grilled sheep was famous, and it was the only restaurant in Sokodé that didn’t give him diarrhoea. He left some thirty virtual euros in the pay-table, finished his coffee and got up. In the narrow corridor leading to the street, he bumped into his favourite waitress.

“Sweetheart, don’t you want your dessert? I’ve got a little surprise for you today”, she whispered in his ear. “I’m not wearing any panties.”

“Thanks, Yassee, but I’ve been a bit stressed lately, too much work”, he stammered, caught completely off guard.

“All the more reason, pretty boy” “ Wouldn’t it do you good to let off a little steam? I’ve got my break coming up and it would take our minds off things”, she continued with a huge smile.

“You’re sweet, another time, okay?” he returned her smile.

“Sweetheart, I miss you, you know. I’d like to see you more often.”

Akram left the dingy building and kept these few words in mind. His friend and mistress was a beautiful, tall woman, with everything exactly where it was needed. Luscious African lips and an engaging face, she exuded a particular sweetness of life, despite how harsh life was in this backwater. Gritting his teeth to reason with himself, he wasn’t sure what to make of Yassee’s last words. Does she miss my wallet or me? Well, it’s true that he only gave her crumbs and small gifts, but it had unsettled him: or rather, does she miss me? This woman, this creature will killme!

Arriving in front of his car, he uttered a special Arabic curse of his. He opened the boot, took out the spare wheel and threw it angrily to the ground. A kid looking at him offered to do the job for him for five real euros, virtual money not being accepted on the street.

Picking up his phone, he called the Janet base to let them know of his setback, watching the repair from the corner of his eye. As is customary in Africa, dozens of eyes were watching the very mundane spectacle. Yet, there was something strange and unusual about this scene. Akram felt followed, controlled. He felt quite ill-at-ease.

During the automatic drive, he thought back to sweet Yassee, her huge mouth and the gorgeous fall of her back… She misses me! What if she was telling the truth? The guard post at the entrance of the base was like a cold shower: papers, search control, and hands in the machine, full scan and mirrors under the car.

“Shit, Sam! I’ve been out for less than two hours! Do I look like a saboteur?”

“Just following orders, Akram, I’m sorry!”

Steve, already aboard the shuttle, poked his head out through the escape hatch and called out the Arab man with an exaggerated grin:

“I almost waited! So, did you go see your beautiful Amazon?”

“Yeah, right! Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“We’ve finished checking the structure and getting our hands dirty on this old wreck. I’ve also run the auto-diagnostics and everything’s in the green. As for the other little niggles, they won’t ground the machine, so we’ll have to wait for the shuttle to return.”

“Great, thanks! Pass me the tracking manifest and check the schedule to see what time the Russkofs are coming to repair the cargo carrier. I really want to know if it’s the structure that has moved again, or just a sensor problem.”

“They’ve called and they’re not coming! From what I understand, it’s about unpaid bills or something.”

“Khara!!! I’m not signing that flight authorization!”

Five hours later, with one hell of a roar, the shuttle had sealed its fate and was taking off at maximum mass with its human cargo towards Yankee.

Kim Eun

As she had expected, the response was swift. She received a batch of 27 vacation photos, some of which incorporated a carrier file with her mission order. The theme of the day being “kissaki”, Kim slipped the six photos corresponding to the bladed weapons into the decryption software and entered her authentication phrase. Her heart raced as she read the text.

– Active phase will begin at 8:20 p.m. on July 24, with a traffic accident at the Gomon Dori street junction.

– Four agents will arrive at the accident site at 10:21 p.m., two of them to manage traffic.

– Mission activation will be your responsibility on channel 27 at 10:23. Do not get involved, no contact.

– DELTA group enters home at 10:25 p.m. and sets up.

– Stay in position for extraction. End of mission before 2 a.m. DELTA will make contact beforehand for approval.

-End of communication-

Kim relaxed; she wouldn’t be involved. Perhaps her command considered her too valuable to risk sacrificing in a field operation. She reached into her bag, swallowed three pills to calm her nerves and began to look at some photos of her daughter… I’ve still got four hours to kill, she thought.

Fake ID, transmitter and a new sport-casual outfit, Kim watched herself in the broken mirror of her lousy bedroom, her eyes fixed on the mirror. She felt herself withering, seeing the rest of her life wasted in a hopeless situation. Blinking twice and smiling forcibly, she magically rediscovered her sexy Korean face with hollowed cheekbones, but the moment was short-lived, lasting no more than three seconds.

Her long knife strapped to the inside of her right thigh was a hindrance. Not that it showed under her skirt, but the itch was unbearable, and this damned room was infected with fleas. She lifted her skirt and placed her weapon on the other thigh, still bare.

For a moment, a flashback reminded her of her youth, when travelling freely on the planet was still allowed. She was fulfilling her dream of becoming a diving instructor in the Philippines, living in a bungalow close to the beach. Her training included night dives, and she once lost her only source of light 25 metres deep, with an air regulator that only worked half the time. The pitch-black night, the absolute silence and the resulting stress had left her with a rash and, above all, the laughter of her Filipino instructor during the debriefing. Kim had known the horror of scratching half her body for the next three days.

Wiping a nostalgic smile from her lips, she grabbed her bag and headed downtown, towards Gomon Dori and its Sheraton. Two cabs later, she passed the crowded reception desk, took an elevator and escaped all this unnecessary luxury towards the fifth floor. Eventually, she knocked on room 625 to find herself face to face with a washed-out woman who arrogantly reproached her for being a minute late. In response, Kim opened both arms amicably and slowly clasped her hands behind the woman’s neck. With unrestrained violence, she smashed her face against her right knee in a dull thud. Calmly, the adrenalin subsiding, she pushed the unconscious agent’s limbs with her feet, preventing her from closing the door. She knew she’d be safe for several minutes with this method. From her small bag, the spy took out two piano strings, a small pair of pliers and her standing spyglass. The advantage of piano wire is that they never try to free themselves, because it hurts too much. Kim circled the ankles and the wrists once, placed them behind the woman’s back, and then bound them together in a perfect job.

She then checked the agent’s breathing, as she was bleeding profusely, and, satisfied, pressed her handkerchief into her mouth. The spy had no regrets about taking down Agent Park, who was known for her cruelty. She didn’t want to have someone like that breathing down her neck for hours on end, and becoming her plaything if the mission failed would be even worse.

The thick window sill made an excellent support for her amplifying spyglass, pointed at the boulevard in question. Her attention was diverted by the insistent smell of urine, causing her to open the window wide. Kim swore at Park’s calamitous skills: three floors too low, the view too limited to the back garden and on top of that she’d emptied her bladder on the carpet. They were less than two hundred metres away and the angle wasn’t optimal, but it was too late to change anything.

It had been dark for over an hour and the pressure was building in her little brain. In twenty minutes, the operation would begin, she was ready…

Bob Mieville

“Tell me, Nils, do you still have access to decommissioned colonial stocks?”

“Yep, we’ve got to throw all that junk into the sun in a few weeks. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Lithium hydroxide cartridges, you know, the kind that produce oxygen when you prime them. In a pinch, they’re a lifesaver, man!”

“Oh, there are hundreds of them, but these things can be terribly dangerous, they don’t age well. I recently saw one go up in flames on Yankee and the whole floor was condemned, so I can’t tell you what it does in a cockpit.”

“Yes, I know, but I’d like to put a few aside, just in case.”

“Bob, the base is calling and they seem nervous.”

“Of course, they’ve got nothing else to do, with their arses stuck in comfortable chairs. Toulouse had a few pieces of debris falling from the shuttle at take-off, maybe there was a radio antenna?”

“Yankee, shuttle A-Aldebaran approaching for orbital injection.”

Bob gave the ship’s electronics the go-ahead for orbiting and a trajectory appeared on the holographic orb on the instrument panel, with flashing markings too poor to read. A synthetic voice announced: Front-end braking in fifteen seconds… Correct trajectory, braking within norms… Significant vibration, deceleration, head hung forward, really unpleasant position.

“Well, for once, it seems to be working normally. The base is in view at two o’clock on the front acquisition camera, everything’s running smoothly.”

The right-hand windscreen cracked completely with a dreary sound and three safety breakers came out. The computer tried to compensate on the secondary circuit, then displayed a hefty 30% on backbreaking and attitude maintenance, before the screens finally turned red with the words “warning” and “failure”. The alarms also took over, listing endless malfunctions…

“Yeah, that’s what I was saying! For once, everything was working normally.”

“I know Betty’s voice is getting sexier by the minute, but I’d rather she told me what’s still working!”

“We’re overshooting our target, Bob! We’re due for another orbit, and really, I’d like to get out of this oven of a suit.”

“How long can the battery last on overload? Shit, the computer just shut down, we’ll have to do it ourselves.”

“Three minutes at 150%, then it’s a fire, well, you know the story. You think life is too long, Bob?”

“I’m turning the emergency ion drive back on. We’ve still got too much energy to waste.”

“Okay, you rotate 180 degrees and I’ll fire up the reactor.”

“I need a distance, find a way to count by reckoning, Nils.”

“15,000… 9,000… 2,000… 800… Damn, that’s fast, 200… 100… ”

The shuttle landed hard on the moon and its right landing gear collapsed. Bob crushed the window of the emergency docking system to prevent the shock absorbers from relaxing in low gravity. Docking pythons sprang from their housings and dug into the regolith, and then the cables tightened.

“Okay, we’re stable, maestro!”

“Shall I book the bus and the cheerleaders?”

“Yes, and chilled champagne, please.”

Bob had a funny feeling of coming home. It wasn’t that he loved this lunar base, but having spent so much time there, it had become a part of his existence. Initially built by the Americans, it had been abandoned in the same way, for lack of funds. Nobody wanted their worthless dollars anymore. The official version was different, as it had been sold with great fanfare to Europe, for a cooperation program, with all the classic blathering of useless politicians.

He remembered seeing the ceremony on TV some fifteen years earlier. It had originally been called the Jefferson Space Centre, and according to American tradition, it was necessary to name it after an illustrious president. It had soon been renamed Yankee by the Eurasian Federation, a truly questionable choice seeing how the relations had kept on deteriorating ever since. The simplistic explanation is that it represents the indispensable point of departure between Earth, Mars and its abandoned colony, and, above all, Paris solar station.

Having picked up the two pilots on the runway, the liaison bus entered the Yankee compound. With its perimeter lighting, it looked more like a soccer stadium than a real military base that was supposed to be discreet. Dazzled by the spectacle emerging from the moonlit night, eyes half-closed against his armoured window, Bob enjoyed the brief moment of calm in his semi-lethargy. The aggressively white military installations revealed rapid-fire cannons and other traditional Gatling rotary cannons, as a response to international tensions, and, above all, as a means to intimidate the new arrivals.

The bus’ holo-hostess, explaining the security procedures in effect, gesticulated like an overexcited Japanese teenager and, against all expectations, froze, prisoner of her faulty program. Trying to solve the problem, the shuttle driver began punching his console, but to no avail. With a wry smile on his lips, Bob stared at the poor woman’s wide-open mouth, then thought to himself that this pretty useless technology was not aging well on this Moon.