Page 4 of Lunar Blackout

Her Majesty is now standing, supported by her walking stick. She is only 32 years old, but her body is as frail as a 90-year-old. “I welcome my subjects, and those from our neighbouring nations of Wales, Scotland and Cornwall.” Northern Ireland is the only nation from the former United Kingdom which is missing. One of the first events of the Great Schism was a referendum of reunification of Ireland, which won with 87.6% of the vote.

The Queen’s speech, clearly written by the Prime Minister hoping to strengthen diplomatic ties with the neighbouring nations, goes on for longer than necessary, as any political speech always does. After Her Majesty, Iolo’s sister talks of how the two assemblies of the people of Wales are keen to strengthen our bond in space. From what I understand, one chamber is elected through a form of proportional representation, and from that chamber a First Minister and government is selected, while the second chamber is full of citizens who are selected, similar to jury service, with the remit to scrutinise the government. As a system I think it’s more elegant than the one England still clings onto, which was outdated a century ago.

The representatives of the other nations too make speeches, but the words float in one ear and out the other as all I can do is stare at Iolo. Thankfully these speeches don’t last long, and we are all invited into the throne room where drinks are being served. Now is my chance to corner Iolo and find out exactly what the rift between us is.

I spot him stood with the President of Cornwall’s son, a handsome man, a bit of a twink but with body hair peaking through the open collar of his shirt. Is that an otter? I can never remember my gay tribes. They seem deep in conversation, but if I don’t do this now, my confidence may collapse, and I do not have time for that. As I walk towards him, the Cornish first son is already walking away. I look around and see that no one is actually looking towards us, so I grab Iolo and pull him into the grand corridor.

“What the fuck?” he protests in an angry voice that I must admit is rather sexy. His accent gets thicker when he is caught off guard.

“We need to talk.” I release his elbow, half expecting him to sprint off, but here he remains. His look seems to be questioning me, half upset, half angry. What could I have done to piss him off all those years ago?

“Finally going to apologise after a decade of radio silence?” He blinks at me. I’m now even more confused than I was thirty seconds ago.

“Apologise for what?” My tone comes out more offended than I had meant, so I try to soft smile at him, as my breath deflates from me. “G-rough—”

“Gruff!”

“Sorry, I genuinely have no idea what I did to you.”

That pisses him off more. What the hell did I do?! “That’s not me advocating innocence, I’ve clearly done something to hurt you, I’m assuming back in the training camp, but I only have fond memories of that time. Please, tell me what I did so we can work through this animosity, that way our journey to the Moon can be one of joy and not this… toxicity that currently lingers between us.”

His face falls, the anger seems to fade, and all that remains now is sadness. My heart is in my throat, I must have really hurt him. I hurt this beautiful man, and that pains me. I had such a crush on him when I met him, and the time we spent together really, truly, made my heart swell.

“You really don’t remember?” He struggles to get the words out. I can see his eyes getting damp, and without realising it, I pull him in for a hug, which at first his arms resist, but before I know it, his arms close around me and my body sparks with electricity.

“I really don’t know what I did, but genuinely I need you to know I am so, so, sorry.”

A door opens, Iolo quickly jumps back and is at least six feet away from me. He wipes his cheeks and smiles at whoever is behind us.

“Ready to go? The car’s outside to take us to the embassy.” I can see the concern in Bronwyn’s eyes as she looks at her brother. Then she looks at me and hums.

“Let’s go.” He doesn’t look at me as he walks away. His sister looks at me as if she’s going to ask me what’s wrong, but instead she walks after him.

I am as puzzled now as I was before, but the hug must be a good sign.

Mustn’t it?

THREE

IOLO

It’s been a week since the banquet, and my brain still doesn’t know how to deal with the new information that golden boy Winston has no recollection of what happened. I can’t believe I cried on his shoulder. My brain is spiralling, and with today being the first day of training for the lunar mission, I feel more sick now than after going through G force training.

There is less than a month until we get strapped onto a tube of explosives and shot into the deadly nothingness of space. And I cannot wait. I try to focus on that to ground myself out of the mental spiral I find myself in.

Today there is a strict schedule of training: checking our space suits fit and a flight simulation in the new Spitfire space plane designed to be the new form of transportation between Earth and space for all UBNSA missions, and this will be the Spitfire’s first manned mission outside of Earth orbit. It was named after the infamous fighter plane from the Second World War. The British obsession with a horrific war back in the early 20th century still holds strong here in the 22nd Century. It’s funny how the right-wing cling onto the comradeship of that time, but do everything in their political power to destroy any such comradeship in the here and now.

I’m hoping that we find out today where the launch will be happening too. It’s between the Space Launch Centre in Port Talbot, and the one on the Isle of White. Port Talbot would be better for me, as it’s close to home, and I miss it. London is fun and all, but its grey concrete and glass everywhere isn’t the warm welcome you receive in the valleys.

I’m approximately an hour and a half early for the first assignment of the day, which was planned. The Embassy doesn’t have a gym, and I need to build my strength up before zero gravity plays havoc with my petty excuse for abs. I arrive at the Royal Space Organisation’s training facility and decide to climb the twelve flights of stairs to the gym. From the top of the stairs I can see out to the glistening skyscrapers that hide the history of this city. Despite being close to the Tower of London and the river Thames, none of that is visible due to these buildings built for the capitalist greed of the previous century.

In the changing rooms, there is only one locker in use, so I have my pick. I choose locker 383, the number being a lyric from my favourite Welsh song, and change out of my work issue polo and cargo trousers into my tank top and running shorts before walking into the gym.

Weirdly, considering a locker was in use, there’s no one in here, so I pick the closest treadmill to me, press play on my smartwatch and start to run, music playing through bone conduction from my wrist straight to my ears. The marvels of modern technology.

I run approximately two and a half kilometres, when the whirr of a door causes me to look up, and walking into the gym is Winston, in only his shorts, t-shirt wrapped over his shoulders, his body glistening with sweat as he walks out of the sauna. He looks like an oiled-up Greek god.

I should not be having these thoughts about him. It’ll only lead to more pain, as I know from experience.