Watching and waiting, visitors from the Moon orbit the planet. Their mission: Conquer Earth. Of course, that’s the easy part…
Whether long and pointed, or flat and broad, Malthusians have big noses. They also have an excellent sense of smell. What came first is a chicken or egg kind of thing.
Commander Kern had a long nose. He entered the ship’s library, nose first, sniffing. His beady eyes narrowed. “Ensign Bremer?”
A stack of books sat before the officer. Megan Bremer looked up. “Oh, it’s you, Commander.”
“Yes it is.”
Megan was alone. It was late. “I was just…” the junior officer began.
“I know what you were doing.”
“You do?”
Moon people can smell emotion. Or fancy they can. “You can’t fool me, Bremer,” said Kern.
“Of course I can’t,” she said, a little too brightly. “Why would I want to?”
“You tell me.”
Throughout their deployment Kenneth Kern had been on her case. First he objected, loudly and through official channels, to accepting an Earth-girl aboard Spaceship One. He monitored her emails and examined schedules. For months he had a security detail follow her everywhere.
Finally Captain Rollhagen called off the dogs. “For God sake, Kern,” he told his second-in-command. “She’s a top graduate of the Moon Corps. She’s more Malthusian than you are.”
Kern resented this. No one is more Malthusian than he.
And he knew trouble when he smelled it. “It’s time to come clean.” He pointed a finger at Megan Bremer. “You’re on Earth’s side.”
“Mr. Kern, that is outrageous.”
“Is it? Do you really want your home planet defeated? What about all your little high school friends? Do you have the guts to see them hauled off to Mars?”
On Earth Megan had been the bookish type. She loved math, astronomy. Trusting, friendly and patient, she was rewarded with gossip, snickers, rolled eyes. She was sweet on a certain boy, a fellow advanced math student. Kelly Hathaway, cheerleader and social climber, made a point of ferociously pursuing him. One day she kissed him right by Megan’s locker, winking over his shoulder.
Not only did she have the guts, Megan said. It would be a pleasure.
The commander was unconvinced. He seized a book. “And what is this?” He read aloud. The Seasonal Table: Classic Recipes from America’s Heartland. He ignored the others. Books reading Tactical Evasion and The Art of Defense.
“This, Ms. Bremer, doesn’t sound like a woman ready to man an Omega X-Ray gun.”
“It doesn’t?” Megan was more amused than afraid.
“It sounds like someone intending to celebrate. After warning her compatriots and thwarting the will of Malthusia!”
“Mr. Kern, I intend to celebrate a birthday.”
“A birthday? Who’s birthday?”
“Yours, if you must know. All of us are making you a lemon pound cake. Your favorite. But now the surprise is ruined.”
Kern’s nose twitched. He bit his lip. “Ensign Bremer, this interview never took place. And I assure you I will be very surprised.” He handed over the book. “Carry on.”
Kern left, and Megan carried on. But she also promised herself, from now on, to be very, very careful.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com