Everyone else in the lunar base could continue to fluster and fuss over the lack of aeroships from Earth, but I needed to find Mister White Whiskers forthwith.

“Where have you gotten yourself to, you silly thing?” My brittle, high voice echoed within the narrow duct. I’d done this job for nigh fifteen years, and this was the first time a cat had vanished in the midst of work. Mister was the most reliable of my lot—a ruthless hunter of vermin and a burly beast who planted himself on my lap each evening when I enjoyed tea and a book in the cats’ room.

I wiggled forward on my elbows and knees, cringing at the hardness of the metal duct. I’d swaddled my knees with extra cloth, but it scarcely seemed to help. I would feel the consequences of this foray tomorrow, of that I had no doubt. My legs had given me grief since a few bad aeroship crashes back in my twenties. In my silver years, those old agonies seemed to compound as the weeks passed. I could only imagine how much worse I’d feel in Earth’s full gravity—not that a return was an option at this time.

The volcanic eruption from Yellowstone had been ongoing for three weeks now and had well smothered the North American continent in gray, including the vicinity of our specialized port in the New Mexico Territory. The American monopoly on mining the moon, once a point of pride, now constricted us in a catastrophic way.

My lantern revealed a few nuggets of rat scat caught in a crevice. I paused long enough to pinch a piece between my gloved fingers to confirm its hardness. No aeroships had docked here for three weeks, but there still had to be some disease-carrying rats about the station. Therefore, I continued my daily rotations with my cats. Now more than ever, we needed to prove our usefulness.

I rounded a bend. A large filter blocked the passage ahead. I frowned and wiggled closer. The filter’s bottom corner was bent inward and created a small gap. The dormitory sector of the dome was on the other side. If all seals were in place, I still might be able to track him down.

But if the miners had twiddled with the hatches over there, as they were wont to do, Mister might make it to the corridors. He’d be free to gallivant about the dome.

Small as I was, I had scarcely the space to turn myself around. My heart felt heavy as mud as I minced my way back down the ladder to the ground. I wanted to rush, but I wasn’t sure how much use it would be. I had waited an hour for Mister before entering the tunnel myself.

The peculiar emptiness of the dock worsened my unease. No aeroships hovered from their ceiling tracks. None of the station miners lurked to assist in moving goods. The goods themselves sat idle in bags, stack after stack of rare minerals awaiting transports that had never come.

Voices echoed across the cavernous space. Lunar aeroships required particularly large gas bags of aether, hence our immense docking space. On Earth, lunar vessels were too sizable to moor at standard masts.

I spared a moment to unwrap the rags from my trousered legs; I hadn’t worn skirts in all my time on the moon, and I missed them about as much as a skunk’s scent. I limped across the docking bay, empty cat cage in hand.

I recognized Captain Clive’s pompous baritone at a distance—he said something about aether storage. Even if he spoke to a single person, he projected his voice as if he needed to be heard by a regiment in parade formation. I enjoyed the man’s company about as much as cleaning cat pans, but Mister’s disappearance would have caused me to seek him out today, anyway.

With him was Chief Engineer Lester. He stood at attention, but offered me a slight smile in greeting. The dear boy. If I had less decorum, I’d have walloped him with the wire cage. He dared not show any weakness—any favoritism of me—in front of Clive. The captain had made it clear to me that he didn’t think a lunar station was appropriate for a woman, much less one of my advanced age, and that he judged the reputation I had earned in my youth to be mere “myth and hyperbole.” Clearly, I had only acquired a place in the dome due to my late husband’s position as commander, not by my own worth.

I could have tried to correct the captain, but I’d known men like him my entire life. His mind was as set as the Earth’s tilt. He wasn’t worth wasting my time.

My presence caused both men to go silent. I arched an eyebrow. “You weren’t talking about me, were you, Captain Clive?”

“Absolutely not, Mrs. Harrington.”

“Well, I’m glad to find you here. A tunnel filter is bent and that created a gap leading to the dormitories. One of my cats has gone missing.”

“Isn’t it your duty to check the filters as you inspect for vermin?” Captain Clive had a face like sour milk, his blue eyes beset in thick folds of flesh that threatened to blind him.

“This filter was damaged inside the tunnel. Other than me and my cats, only automatons can fit in there, but surely there was no reason for that?” Captain Clive and I looked to Chief Engineer Lester.

He blinked rapidly in that near-constantly bewildered way of his. “Oh. Yes. Ma’am, I did indeed send scrubber automatons through several vents recently. Semi-annual cleaning.”

“It would have taken considerable force to damage a filter like that, sir!” I said.

“I’m not sure what to say about that, ma’am.” He looked downright chagrinned.

I could think of several things to say, none of them appropriate before the captain. I was fond of Lester, true, but sometimes he could be as daft as a cat with an exploded pillow, trying to chase every feather and thought at once.

Captain Clive raised a hand as if to placate me. “Now, now, Mrs. Harrington. It sounds as if an accident caused the damage. Your beast will turn up somewhere unwelcome, I’m sure.”

I gritted my teeth. “I welcome his recovery anywhere, Captain.” I wearied of calling him by the title. This was a corporate-backed mining venture with mugwumps in charge who thought military structure would maintain discipline and morale. Of the two dozen men here, many had served stints in the service for one nation or another, not that their experiences had domesticated them in the slightest.

“Speaking of recovery.” Chief Engineer Lester cleared his throat. “It’s daylight down below and our spotters don’t see a change in the situation on Earth, ma’am.”

“If we had our ship . . .” Captain Clive stopped himself, his jaw hard. A pulse point on his neck twitched.

Four days before, a mutiny occurred on the station. A band of selfish fools absconded with the Williams. They had vowed to send help and food for us, but hopes were dim that they had even survived the landing. Now we had no means by which to even attempt a return to Earth.

Theories abounded on the station about how bad things were down below, and even the mildest scenarios were dire. Lunar aeroship envelopes could endure the extreme heat of re-entry, but not hot atmospheric debris. The ash itself could be feet thick at our port. Everyone may well be dead across a large swath of the country, victims of toxic gas, lava, or the unceasing gray rain. We had no means of communicating with the planet below; telegraph wire couldn’t be strung to the moon in the way it had connected continents across oceans. All we could do was watch Earth spin, and wait.

“Sir,” I said, voice crisp, “While we do not have a ship, we do have adequate stockpiles of food for weeks to come.”

Lester blinked at me. “Are you even worried, ma’am?”

“I’m concerned, yes, but I’ve endured worse. I helped build this dome. Back then, only two lunar aeroships existed at all, and they only sailed here bi-weekly. After the Yuma crashed, we relied on a single ship for six months. I know I can make do.”

“Our current crew isn’t made of such stalwart stuff, Mrs. Harrington.” Captain Clive turned away. “If they had your discipline, your perspective, perhaps our plight wouldn’t be so dreadful. Control those cats of yours,” he added. “Now’s not the time to lose any.”

My delight in his compliment fizzled away. “Should I save any rats they might find, Captain? I might convince my cats to share.”

“We are not to such a level of desperation yet, Mrs. Harrington.” He granted me a stiff bow and the strident clops of his boots faded away.

“Yet,” I muttered. “I suppose it’s only a matter of time until there’s another mutiny.” I sighed. “Well, we control what we can, and as the captain so helpfully observed, I must control my cats. I need to find Mister White Whiskers.”

“Oh, no. He’s the one gone missing?”

“Yes. Your favorite.” Everyone’s favorite, really. A few of the other men were known to stop and visit my cat colony on the sly. The men doted on Mister, and he reciprocated with his affections. “I’ll find him. I’ll head toward the dormitory now.”

Lester motioned to the massive doors that led to his adjacent workshop. “I need to return to work.”

“You look worn down. You’re eating your daily rations, aren’t you?”

“I’m eating. I simply have a lot to do right now, between automaton repairs and my own projects, ma’am.”

“Do take care of yourself, Lester.”

I picked up the cage and moved along. That boy’d probably forget to sleep unless I reminded him. Both on Earth and on the moon, I had collected numerous cats and a fair share of young men like Chief Engineer Lester. I had never wanted children, so this sort of mature adoption suited me well; I avoided the messier, more meddlesome stages of youth.

However, my cat’s absence had certainly created a messy dilemma I did not need. “Where are you, Mister?” I muttered to the empty cage in my grip.

As the lone woman on base, and the widow of its first commander, I was accorded with private quarters that were set apart near the water station and the docking bay. This meant that I could usually avoid the vicinity of the men’s dormitory. That was a blessing for many reasons—such as the stench of dozens of men living in tight proximity—but also because, until recently, the gondola of the Yuma had been kept on display in the broad, tall corridor near their bunkhouses.

Any pilot could tell you that different crafts have different personalities. Well, the Yuma was a petulant toddler, sweet and temperamental by turns, and her obstinate need to malfunction had brought about her demise. She had looked pretty enough when kept on display as a memorial. Automatons kept the exterior clean, of course, and the control cabin had been thoroughly scrubbed free of blood and detritus.

The captain back then had asked my permission for the ship to be posed as a tribute to my husband, and I told him truly: fine by me, so long as I didn’t have to see it often.

Sometimes, though, I had felt the need to visit and stare at the ship for a time, and ponder what might have been.

Now the Yuma was gone, dragged away for scrap, but I still saw the glimmering gondola in my mind’s eye.

I would have much preferred to see a flash of black fur.

I set down the cage and walked the hall. I checked the nearest vents, unbolting the accesses and making kissy noises without a care about any men passing by. Two gentlemen, just off shift, kindly checked inside the dormitory for me and said they’d spread the word about Mister.

I soon found two vent covers loose enough for Mister to have pushed his way out. Some damned fool or fools had probably attempted to hide contraband—likely food.

I could have wept. Mister White Whiskers had the run of the dome. The only exception was Lester’s workshop, as it existed behind multiple air locks with its own ventilation system.

An hour passed without the sight of so much as a black cat hair. I limped back to my quarters, knees aching.

My dejection flared into rage when I realized that someone had meddled with my lock.

The metal around my door’s keyhole bore faint scratch marks. From my short height, the marks were easy to see. I glanced around, worked my key, then ducked inside. I all but dropped the cage in my haste to do the extra deadbolts. I felt a surge of love and gratitude for my husband; he’d taught me to never trust the locks I’d been given. I had customized the door mechanism and key soon after I had claimed these rooms.

A chorus of meows arose from the shut door across the chamber, and I went to take comfort in the rest of my brood.

My five remaining cats purred and twined around my boots. There was Tomato, with his white fur and large red-orange blotches, and Monsieur Craig, a part-Siamese feline with a bold conversational yowl. Lilith, Solomon, and Jordan were tabbies of various tints. All of them were short-haired cats, but the lower gravity within the dome caused their fur to stand on end as if they were perpetually peeved.

“Don’t fuss, my darlings, I’ll feed you and then. . . .” I stilled.

Food. What if someone had attempted entry into my quarters in order to feast upon my cats? What if someone nabbed Mister for that same purpose?

I moved like an automaton as I opened their tin and exited the room. At least the cats’ food was safe from theft except as a true last resort. My felines ate a repulsive butchers’ mélange; the tins bluntly stated that the contents were not for human consumption.

My cats themselves offered the real temptation: fresh meat.

I looked around. I had limited belongings and very few things from my husband, but I did still have his old cudgel. Even as commander, he’d done his share of menial guard duty in our early years here.

With the stick reinforcing my forearm, I did a few practice swings. I hadn’t forgotten the drills he taught me, but I moved as slow as cold syrup.

Well, I did have one major advantage. Few would expect a batty old woman like me to wield a cudgel. After all, I’d been kept around the station as a sympathetic old relic, much like the Yuma. Soon enough, I’d be due for the scrap pile, too, but not yet, by God.

The palpable anxiety in the station compounded day by day as volcanic smoke continued to suffocate Earth below. Our rations were cut again. Even I knew near-constant hunger—not that I voiced any complaint, of course. I continued to take precautions with my quarters and my cats. A few men inquired after Mister, in a well-meaning fashion, while others made cruder jokes.

I understood their perspective, really, I did. Meat was meat. To me, however, my cats were soul-bearing creatures. I’d no sooner dine on them than I’d resort to cannibalism.

The others on board might have held similar reservations, but now, now . . . I dreaded what might happen in the coming weeks.

Chief Engineer Lester had always maintained a sapling-like form, but he quickly began to waste away. Whenever we had the chance to speak, his bloodshot eyes squinted toward blank walls and he often paused to jot down notes as he muttered to himself. He assured me that Mister White Whiskers was surely alive somewhere. There were still some rats to be found; Tomato had snagged one a few days before in the water station, where tons of ice from a nearby lunar crater were stored and purified for consumption. Perhaps Mister was making-do as well.

I desperately wanted him to be alive. I wanted to feel his spongy pink nose nuzzle my knuckles again. Whatever had happened to him—or might happen—my fervent hope was that he not know any pain.

At the four-week anniversary of the eruption, Captain Clive sounded bells for all crew to assemble by the dormitories. I attended, cudgel at my hip, no cat cage at my feet. The day before, I resolved that it was too dangerous to continue my rotations. My cats were safest in their room. My locks had kept them secure for now, but I knew if someone exerted full force, my metal door would offer protection as scant as tulle in a hurricane.

The men had likewise had their shifts reduced. Physical weakness was an issue, but the greater concern was an increasing lack of storage for transit-ready minerals.

Captain Clive stood on a box to be better seen. “As you know, our situation remains dire. Our spotter reports that the ash is starting to dissipate, but we don’t know if anyone can fly to us. You know we lack a vessel of our own to even attempt a homecoming. However, we will endure through our military discipline—”

“Discipline ain’t filling my belly, sir,” a man called out. He was the brash fool of the group—there’s always at least one—and he already had a favorite bunk in the closet-sized base brig. “This ain’t some island where we might find some fish ‘r birds ‘r something. This’s the moon. Can’t eat dust or nickel.” Positive murmurs echoed the sentiment.

“But there are cats.”

I couldn’t see who uttered that. Three men I regarded as the trustworthy sort sidled closer to me, their smiles to me supportive yet grim. Across the crowd, I sensed Lester’s concerned eyes on me as well.

“For now, the cats are to be considered crew, same as any of us.” Captain Clive’s voice rang out. “When an aeroship does arrive, the danger brought by rats will be more heightened than ever before. None of us is in proper form to fight off the illnesses that vermin bring.”

Certainly, his words were hollow, as he had little control over the men, but I appreciated the gesture nevertheless.

“But there aren’t any ships in sight, sir,” called a man. “We can barely see the continent now.”

“You’re right. For that reason, we must divide rations further. If we halve our current quota, we have adequate food for another month.” Groans echoed in the enclosed space.  Captain Clive raised a hand. “I will not brook any dissent. Rations will be handed out twice daily to coincide with major shift changes. Eat a daily serving of canned tomatoes or dried pineapple to stave off scurvy. There will be no thieving, no hoarding. Understood?”

The ayes that followed were subdued as the crowd dispersed. Lester worked his way close to me. “Ma’am, you should stay with your cats.”

“Chief Engineer Lester is right,” said Captain Clive as he joined us.

“Meaning I should enjoy my cats’ company and say my farewells.”

“We’re in wait of a miracle, ma’am.” Clive motioned to the stalwart men acting as his escort. They exited. I stared after them and sighed.

“As if I’ll quietly hand over my cats when the time comes.”

“Ma’am . . .” Lester shifted uncomfortably.

“They’re my family. You know that. You were especially fond of Mister.” I hated speaking of that cat in the past tense. I murmured a curt farewell to Lester and hurried home, bolting the door shut behind me.

I might have minutes with my cats. Hours. Days. Could we hide anywhere? That made me laugh. The dome was smaller than a tenement block down below, with most of the space used by the docking bay and workshop. That workshop was the most secure place of all, but in all Lester’s years here, I had never been inside—nor had anyone but the captain. I gnawed on my lip.

Low, muttered voices carried from the hallway. I froze. Had men already come to claim my cats? I hadn’t even visited them since I returned! The base had weeks of food left!

I forced my breaths slow and pressed my ear to the wall beside the door.

“She’s just an old woman.”

I knew him. The troublemaker.

“She’s a tough old bird, living here on the moon long as she has,” said another man. “Heard she was a pilot, back in the early days—”

“A pilot? Her? She plays with cats all day, that’s all she’s ever done. Don’t bother trying that master key again, ain’t gonna work.”

I slipped the cudgel free of its loop and held it ready as I switched to stand on the other side of the doorway. They’d seen me carry the stick around the past week and regarded it as a joke. Well, they’d soon know how real it was.

I hadn’t always played with cats all day.

“Mrs. Harrington!” The agitator boomed out my name.

“You’re not getting my cats!” I hated the shrillness in my voice.

A blow shuddered through the door, a clash of metal on metal. They had brought some sort of battering ram. “I guessed as much. So’s you know, this ain’t anything personal, Mrs. Harrington.” He pounded the door again, causing it to warp and bulge. My defenses had borne up with all the fortitude of dried petals in a meaty fist.

“When it comes to my cats, it is personal,” I snapped. “Good God, if we were actually out of food, this would make more sense!”

“If we wait, others might get’em first, and we’re hungry now.”

The third blow shattered the hinges and sent my door slamming into the floor with a horrendous clatter. More metal dinged as he set down his battering ram—a pipe, I surmised. I waited, breaths heavy.

As he stepped through the doorway, I swung. My husband’s cudgel met the miner’s nose. It erupted like a pummeled tomato. He had scarcely braced himself on the doorway when I swung again, this time catching him across the temple. The snap of wood upon skull reverberated clear to my soul. His face painted by blood, he sank to the floor with a deflating groan.

Had I killed the man? Would he be regarded as meat as well? Horror froze me in place.

Boots clambered in the hallway. I poked my head out far enough to see his comrade fleeing in low-gravity bounds.

“Well.” The word, my hands, my heart, all rattled. I pressed fingers to the downed man’s neck. He lived, but it seemed like he wouldn’t move anytime soon.

I had to leave. We had to leave. I retreated across the room. I had two cages. It’d be a horrible squeeze for the cats and involve some bloodletting on my part to force them inside, but it had to be done.

I suspected Captain Clive’s quarters would be under siege as well. Would men engage in a Bacchanalian revel if they obtained the storeroom keys, or hoard food for their own factions? I couldn’t be distracted by such thoughts now.

I expanded the cages and approached the cats’ door. Yowls greeted me. A hysterical laugh burst out of me. It was almost their feeding time. All the more reason for them to be enraged.

“Sorry, wee ones,” I said. “We need to visit Chief Engineer Lester, posthaste. Dinner will be late tonight.”

“I can’t let you in.” Lester’s voice was tinny through the small horn that curved from the wall by the broad workshop doors.

“I hate to bring trouble upon you like this, I do, but . . .” My voice broke as Lilith emitted a particularly anxious yowl. “Please, Lester. I need help. I need hope.”

“Hope.” A long pause. “Given a little more time, I might be able to offer hope, but there’s still so much to do—”

“What are you doing, Lester?” I barely kept myself from screeching.

I heard clicks as both sets of doors released. Chief Engineer Lester stood in the gap. He looked past me as if afraid to meet my eye. “Hurry. Just give me a chance to explain, ma’am, please—”

I rolled the cart inside. The movement caused my cat-scratched arms to ache. The doors hissed shut at my heels as I stopped, mouth agape. “Is that—how?”

The Yuma. In the cavernous space of the dock, it drifted like a titanic ghost, its gondola a glossy copper, its new envelope plated like dragon scales. A track high in the ceiling anchored the massive craft in place. I stumbled forward and breathed in the inebriating heady scent of aether.

“Months ago, it was set to be scrapped! You told me it was scrapped!” I felt the profound urge to get into the guts of the ship. Run my hands along those walls. Stare out windows from my old command chair.

“Officially, it was.” He cleared his throat. “I . . . I had no immediate need for the metal, though, so I left it intact. After the mutineers stole our other ship, I thought, well, maybe Yuma could give us a chance to get home. We had an envelope and gas bags in storage, so . . .”

“No wonder you’ve looked half-dead with exhaustion. Captain Clive knows, doesn’t he?” I thought back to when I caught them talking in the docking bay. “The aether tank levels gave you away. Why didn’t you get more help with this? Why didn’t you ask me for help?”

Horror swept over his face. “The remaining men are miners. They have no idea how to construct a craft with such sensitive workings! And you—” He stopped himself.

I understood, then. “To you, I am, and always have been, the old woman with the cats. You didn’t put any credence in the gossip about me being a pilot, did you?”

In a glance, it was clear I was right. “I, I don’t trust most of the things the others say, and you never talk of being a pilot, ma’am.”

I might have descended into regret and reverie, but a certain meow caught my attention. Oh, there were many meows at that moment, as my caged critters lodged their own fervent protests, but this particular meow was one I had never expected to hear again.

“Mister White Whiskers!” I cried.

Mister was in a cage on a cluttered table along the back wall. He stood, his white front paws propped on the bars. My erstwhile feline had lost weight, but so had we all.

I whirled to confront Lester. “You had him all along?” This betrayal hurt like nothing else.

Guilt twisted Lester’s every feature. “Yes. I had Mister caged before you ever entered the vent in search of him. I needed a living body to make sure Yuma’s seals were secure for testing.”

“But Mister White Whiskers is your favorite! How could you risk him—”

“If this ship fails, he’s doomed anyway, ma’am. I would have treated him with honor, had anything gone wrong.” His voice was soft. “I know what I’m doing, but there are risks, working fast like this.”

“I knew what I was doing, too,” I murmured. “The Yuma still crashed. My husband still died on impact.”

Lester’s jaw dropped. “You—you were piloting that day?”

“Yes. The company made sure to keep that quiet after the fact. We knew my gender would have absorbed the blame, not the mechanical failure in the portside stub wing.”

“Yet wouldn’t that have been to their advantage?”

“How would stockholders have judged the company, having repeatedly trusted such a valuable ship—indeed, the whole lunar operation—to a woman?” Time had eroded the bitterness from my voice. “I mourn my husband, every day, but I also know I did what I could, and that’s why I survived, and the payload, too. Everyone in the station would have likely starved if we lost that food. And here we are again.” I shook my head. “Have you tested the ship outside?”

“Yes. Thrice on the tether line, the engines set on hover.”

I poked my fingers through the bars of Mister’s cage. Tears came to my eyes as he frantically nuzzled me, his pink nose damp on my fingertips. His purr roared. “Good boy. Wonderful boy,” I whispered to him, then looked back at Lester. “This ship needs to fly immediately. We need to show the crew that there is a means of escape now that the ash fall is decreasing on Earth. I’ll be the test pilot. It’ll be a quick trip. I needn’t fly far.”

I raised a hand to silence his objections. “You know the dangers at this stage. I’m non-essential crew with my cats fated as they are, and quite frankly, I’d rather be gone before I see them as a stew.”

Lester offered me a reluctant nod. “Understood, ma’am. I . . . I’m really sorry that you were so worried about Mister. I tried to take care of him, best as I could.”

“Even as you risked him. Well. Worse may happen to him yet.” I shook my head in disgust. “Come. Let’s start the full walk-through. We must pay particular attention to the stub wings.”

“If this works, we’re going home,” he murmured, his eyes bright.

Questions raced through my mind: How would the Yuma handle reentry into the atmosphere, when she was most vulnerable amid the ashes and debris? What would happen if she couldn’t dock?

I frowned and looked for a pair of gloves. I couldn’t dally on what I could not control. There was work to be done.

After fifteen years, my hands had not forgotten how to control an aeroship. This aeroship. The one I knew better than any other. A bell dinged, and I knew the switch to flip. A light flashed, and I knew the dial to adjust.

The seat, however, felt uncomfortable beneath my hips. Whether it was because of the newer chair or the differences in my own body due to age and lunar life, I couldn’t deem a guess.

We surveyed the ship and declared it ready. For safety purposes, the workshop had access to the base alarm system. Lester sounded the all-hands muster bell for the docking bay and he altered the ceiling track. We waited a few minutes for the men to congregate. As the Yuma glided forward, the wide doors parted to show the emptiness of the larger bay. Against that scale, the clustered men resembled a child’s die-cast lead soldiers.

I counted them as the ship moved forward. Most were present, even the man I’d bashed with my cudgel; he sat, holding a compress to his head. I wouldn’t have known Captain Clive but for his uniform. His face was discolored, bruised like an apple used for boys’ kickball, but he wasn’t in shackles. His companions flanked him, likewise injured. It was a relief to see he had maintained some measure of command.

Lester advanced to confer with Clive. I gave them a moment, then I issued a query of my own. I flashed my forward lights in sequence: request permission for departure.

Clive responded in semaphore gestures: permission granted.

The ship moved forward into the airlock. I readied the ship. Lights above the next doors flashed: ready?

Taking a deep breath, I flashed the rear lights in the affirmative. The doors shut behind me, and after an anxious pause, the way before me opened. Beyond that: space.

It had been so long since I’d been aloft, I had forgotten that surge of panic, adrenaline, that flows as a ship clears the specialized lunar docking rail and becomes buoyant beneath its own power. An alarm sounded; I squelched it with the flip of a switch. I monitored the dashboard, my lips tracing checklists I knew as well as the alphabet. A gray, pock-marked landscape sprawled below, while above, jewels sparkled against the bleak blackness of space.

I turned the Yuma, and Earth hovered before me. Daylight shone over North America. I sucked in a breath. The shroud of gray had indeed begun to dissipate. Colors existed, much more muted than before, but they existed.

Hope surged through me and I fought against tears that would create annoying droplets throughout the cabin.

I grabbed a logbook and made notes on elevator balance numbers and other data, but thus far, the ship flew with surprising grace. Not at all like my cantankerous old Yuma. She would have stalled while still in the docking bay.

My released pencil floated and spun away. I grabbed it, laughing at my rediscovery of reduced gravity.

Suddenly I realized I had acutely missed some parts of my pilot’s life. The thrill of take-off. The problem solving. The vantage point of the spheres below. My husband’s companionship.

But I didn’t want to be in this chair for any longer than necessary. I was past that time of my life. I was past that need to prove myself.

Right then, what I wanted most of all was to be home.

After an hour aloft, I docked the Yuma.

The men awaited me in tidy rows, their perfect posture proof that military discipline still lurked somewhere within the recesses of their brains.

I disembarked. My legs quivered and my eyes ached from the adjustment to lunar gravity. At my approach, the men saluted. My long stride faltered, but I composed myself as I stood before Captain Clive and made a snappy salute of my own.

I made my report. The ship was sound; the aggression of our own planet would be the greatest issue in a return voyage. I presented my logbook to Clive, who skimmed my notes and passed them along to Lester.

Clive faced the men at parade rest. “You know well the risks of staying here or making an attempt at home. The choice is yours. Who will board the Yuma a few days hence?”

Most of the men—but not all—raised their hands. Captain Clive glanced at me, one eyebrow arched.

“I will stay here, sir. There are other capable pilots.” I motioned toward two of the miners.

“Mrs. Harrington, are you sure?” Clive asked, disbelief in his voice.

I stiffened. “Captain Clive, I am already home.”

His lips parted as if he would speak, but then he only nodded. I acknowledged the gazes of the men behind him—some impatient, some weary, some chagrinned. I wish I could say that I turned away in dismissal of them and whatever they might think of me, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I had long since given up on the fight to gain men’s respect, but I’d take what I had earned this day. I’d hoard it like food tins.

“Sir, if I might be excused, I must attend to other duties,” I murmured.

“Of course, of course. We all have a great deal to do. Dismissed!”

The men dispersed around me, some grunting or muttering congratulations. I accepted Lester’s quick hand clasp as he hurried by, his to-do list evident by his bright vacant expression.

I rushed through the docking bay. Cages full of furious felines awaited me in Lester’s workshop. My excuses for their tardy dinner would be insufficient, but they’d forgive me. Eventually. I was home. I was there for them. No matter what happened in these coming days, I was where I belonged.