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In a Faraway Land
- USAF Battery Blue, Henson Crater SW Rim, South Pole, Moon
June 9th, 2062
he clank of the air conditioner compressor kicking on jolted Alejandro upright. He'd been stuck in that superposition between sleep and daydream for 3 hours, so the shock of compressor combined the sensations of falling off a building whilst also being hit in the head with a cartridge with rattling nails. The dull amber lights mounted on the four corners of his barracks room flickered into a low hum. Back sore, feet swollen, nose dry like in the midddle of a long-haul flight. Fitting, because he had done just that.
Three days ago Alejandro and 11 other foreign military servicemembers had set off for the Moon from the American Space Terminal Pontiac—last stop on the Great North American Space Elevator (GNASE, pronounced gee-naze). The GNASE was anchored 50 miles north of Detroit, Michigan, a location that the government commercials say was chosen to give ready access to America's Canadian friends. Although it was more realistically selected due to a confluence of cheap and available land, proximity to people and industry, and President of the day Ralla Singh Khatter's former station as Governor of Michigan. Most terminals along GNASE's length were operated by private companies, but Pontiac—the final useable terminal located at geostationary orbit—was publicly inaccessible, operated by the U.S. Army's 10th Terminal Battalion for exclusively military uses. Alejandro was slightly sad that they wouldn't stamp his passport. Common applications at Terminal Pontiac included resupply trips to the Moon or the asteroid belt, orbital spacecraft factories, and, a classic, the good old militarization of space.
Alejandro's trip was the first, part of a biannual rotation of foreign servicemembers to the USAF Battery Blue. The battery, called "the bluff" when the officers weren't around, was one of many exoatmospheric defense installations on the Moon. It was basically an array of missiles and lasers to protect American private interests and military operations. The foreign servicemembers were part of an exchange program, one of the few that could take them into space. Most Alejandro's fellow passengers were members of their respective air forces as Battery Blue was an air force installation. However, Alejandro was different. While everyone else wore blue, he wore white. His black shoulder boards showed a thin ribbon looping in the center. He was a Guardiamarina in the Mexican Navy, a recent grauate of la Heroica Escuela Naval Militar as a Marine Infantry officer.
Because Battery Blue was a common public relations stop for politicians and generals wanting to make a big show of the Moon's militarization—and it housed nuclear warheads deep underground—the bluff had a Marine Detachment of about 300. Guarding dignitaries and nuclear weapons was a mission of the U.S. Marine Corps as set by law. While Alejandro would not be let within a mile of a nuke, he would be billeted in the Marine wing of the base, take part in their perimeter patrols, receiving the less valuable visitors, and getting schooled by the Lieutenants. The Marine wing was much more ratty than the Air Force wing—where his fellow passengers would be staying—but beggars can't be choosers. There was no other conceivable way for a Mexican naval officer to get into space and Alejandro won the lottery.
The speaker mounted on his barrack room ceiling squelched on and a pathetically faint rendition of reveille, seemingly composed on a synthesizer, began to drone. Down the hall he could hear two men slamming their fists on their fists door by door. It was at least 10 doors until they got to Alejandros.
"Everyone front and center for sanitary inspection!" They barked out of sync. "Get up!"
Alejandro scrambled to his feet and out the door, still in his white skivvies. He was stiff as a board, not really sure of what the procedure was. Marines began to saunter out in drab skivvy shirts and shower shoes, so expectations couldn't be that high.
To his left the double doors at the end of the hall opened. A Marine lieutenant, silver bar on his khaki collar, was flanked by two duty Marines with red brassards on their arms and chunky tablets in their hands. They walked up to Alejandro, first door on the right.
"We got a squid here?" The Lieutenant mumbled, poking at the green phosphor mini-screen sunken into the wall outside Alejandro's room. "Ah, Midshipman Alejandro Navarro Martin, Mexican Marine Corps. Which one is your last name?"
"Navarro, sir." Alejandro replied.
"Right Nav, you a student?"
"No sir. In Mexico, Midshipman is like your butter-bar."
"Thanks for the tip. Do you have any illness, injury, appointment, or barracks room maintenance issues to report?"
Alejandro paused, not exactly knowing what constituted a reportable "maintenance issue."
"Well sir, the air circulator does not sound healthy and I think my speaker is broke."
"Yeah well you'll get used to that," the Lieutenant sighed. "The HVAC probably hasn't gotten proper maintenance since 2045. But if you get something like an air leak or a Geiger starts clicking you tell me."
The two paused in silence for a few seconds as the Lieutenant tapped away at the duty Marine's tablet. Coughs and sighs were audible down the hall. Obviously the Marines were slightly annoyed that a new arrival was messing with the flow of their morning ritual and keeping them in the hall. Alejandro's face clammed up, but he was honestly more concerned with his flight-induced sciatica.
"Alright Nav, if you don't have any reason to go to sickbay, get dressed in whatever PT gear you brought and follow my Marines as they file out. PT is scheduled in the multipurpose hall for 0630. After that, shower, get breakfast, and you'll be with Staff Sergeant Romano for the rest of the day. He's leading the perimeter patrol detail today so you'll get to try on a space suit and draw a weapon. Roger?"
"Yes sir."
The trio moved on. The true streamlining of their whole morning ritual was much more evident down the hall. In most cases, the Lieutenant just pointed at each Marine without even stopping, and they'd recite "No issues, sir." After about 45 seconds of that, everyone shuffled back into their rooms to get changed for PT.