A Cerridwen Press Publication www.cerridwenpress.com Walking On the Moon ISBN #1-4199-0225-3 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Walking On the Moon Copyright© 2005 Susan Sizemore Edited by: Mary Moran Cover art by: Syneca Electronic book Publication: May 2005 With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Cerridwen Press, 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously. Cerridwen Press is an imprint of Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® Walking On the Moon Susan Sizemore Trademarks Acknowledgement The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Friends: Time Warner Entertainment Company, L.P. Band-Aid: Johnson & Johnson Corporation NewJersey Calvin Klein: Calvin Klein Trademark Trust ChicagoBears: Chicago Bears Football Club, Inc. MasterCard: MasterCard International Incorporated Battenburg Lace: Bess Manufacturing Company Chapter One “I’m hungry.” Shift Officer Denys Duchamp tried not to listen as he walked past the men surrounding the information station—he’d heard the complaint too many times in the last month. The crew wasn’t hungry, not for nutrition at least. It was lack of variety, lack of interest, lack of female companionship sublimated into food cravings. Or so the medicomputer assured him. A third of the crew had been drafted onto military vessels, leaving the men of the mining ship HATTON overworked as well as bored. Boredom was starting to breed a sort of restless discontent the Captain didn’t want to hear about. Denys didn’t much like hearing about it, either, but he was the one who had to deal with it. He took the food tray from the serving niche and carried it to the nearest table. He was careful not to look at or smell the glop on the tray as he wolfed it down. It was tasteless but good for him. “I’m hungry,” he complained under his breath after he was done. It was an emotional not a physical lack. The words were a mantra he repeated frequently with every tasteless meal. He liked to think of it as a sort of salt substitute. He sighed, and joined the rest of the men of Second Shift in watching the news screens. While the First Shift Bridge Crew was responsible for monitoring the planet they orbited information networks for any sign of detection, everybody else on the ship was spending their free time glued to old-Earth broadcasts for entertainment. There was nothing better to do. Besides, it was educational—what they were watching was like viewing living history. Except for the reruns ofFriends, which they’d all grown up with anyway. Denys slid into one of the seats placed in a semi-circle around the bank of nine screens. Every one of them showed a different channel. The big main screen featured a bland-faced commentator on CNN. Cartoons, sports, a film with lots of explosions, hip-hop music videos, a cooking show, a talk show and a weather channel filled the other screens. Predictably, the sound was turned on for the cooking show. Denys decided to try for a bit of conversation with his men. “We been spotted yet?” “No,” six voices answered. No ones’ eyes left the video screen, which showed someone’s sure hands enthusiastically chopping onions. “Good,” he answered. “The Stealth field’s working.” He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. He felt like he was talking to himself. “You’d think somebody’d notice something. The HATTON’s over a mile long. I’ll be glad when we make the supply run and get out of here.” No one offered an opinion. Cleary made a shushing gesture in his direction. “Chili,” said Harcort wistfully. “I haven’t had chili since…” “Hotter ‘n hell,” Sakretis said. “That’s what she told the interviewer.” “I’d love to meet her,” Cleary added. “She’s gorgeous, and she can cook. I’m in love.” “Who’s gorgeous?” Denys asked, completely puzzled by his men’s comments. “Claudia Cameron,” Toffler said reverently. He pointed toward the screen. “Her name’s Claudia. We’ve watched this tape for three days. Over and over and over.” He sighed heavily. “That’s her,” Morrison said as the face of a dark-haired young woman replaced the sight of sizzling onions. “Beautiful,” Cleary intoned. “It’s been a long time since you’ve seen a woman, hasn’t it?” Fox asked Cleary sarcastically. “She’s not that beautiful. But she makes prize-winning chili,” he added fondly. She was very attractive Denys decided, in an average, brown-haired, blue-eyed, button-nosed sort of way. It was kind of interesting how the pink sweater she wore clung to all the right proportions of curves. A very nice double handful of curves. He felt his body heating up as he stared at the woman on the flat view screen.How long has it been since I’ve seen a woman? he wondered, blinking rapidly to try to break the spell.Only a few weeks , he reminded himself.Get a grip, Duchamp. Set an example for your men, and all that. She was still stimulating senses when he focused his attention on her again, but this time it was his taste buds that took notice. “Chili’s about the perfect food,” she said to the unseen interviewer. “Deep red and brown, and fragrant with all the heat and spice of the desert at high noon. I serve it with cornbread and cheddar wedges, and tart apples dipped in a caramel sauce.” Denys wiped the back of his hand across his watering mouth. He agreed with Cleary—he was in love. “It sounds like it’s worth every penny of your ten-thousand dollar cooking prize,” the interviewer’s voice commented cheerily. “And how are you going to spend your prize money? Start a three-star restaurant inBraddenFalls?” “Oh, no. I’m going on a long, luxurious vacation.” “Someplace romantic?” The cook smiled, her mouth holding a hint of mystery, a touch of wistfulness and a lot of sardonic amusement. “Who knows?” That smile, and the touch of sultriness in her voice, had the impact of a nova bomb on Denys’ tired brain. His breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t just his taste buds reacting, but his whole body warming in the glow of her smile. Of her taped and frequently re-run smile, he forced himself to recall. The woman might have a strong personality but it was canned, she was on a video that had probably been taped weeks ago, it wasn’t like he was ever going to experience that smile or voice in any live-action, interactive sort of way. Which was a pity really. Denys gave his head a hard shake. “I’m definitely going stir crazy.” “You’re just hungry,” Cleary sympathized. Before he could answer, the ship’s comm sounded. “Second Shift to the hangar bay,” the captain’s voice said. “The shipment is in, gentlemen. We can pick it up and blow orbit as soon as you lads get back.” Sakretis jumped to his feet first. “We’re about to touch the Earth of our ancestors,” he declared. Sakretis was the poetic sort. “Greece. My great-grandparents leftGreecein the twenty-first century. I’m returning to the home of my people.” He rubbed his stubbly jaw as Denys herded them to the door. “I wonder if there’s anywhere good to eat?” Everyone in the crew perked up at the question. “Food,” Cleary breathed reverently. “Hey, Duchamp, can we stop somewhere to eat Earth-side?” Denys didn’t like the idea of interaction with the planet natives, there was too much at stake for the crew of the HATTON to risk contaminating their own history, but he also figured he might have a mutiny on his hands if he didn’t let the men have at least a quick meal. There was morale to consider here. “Affirmative,” he answered, hoping it wasn’t a mistake. A cheer went up and everyone’s pace quickened as they hurried to catch the slidecar for the hangar deck. “Ouzo,” Sakretis said to the group as they climbed aboard the slidecar. “My great-grandpa told me about ouzo.” * * * * * Greecewas everything Claudia expected, almost. The sun was bright, the sea sparkled by day and at sunset, the water truly was wine dark. The scenery was starkly beautiful, ancient and full of mystery. Olive groves glowed dull silver-green in the heat haze and the air smelled of verbena. And exhaust fumes, she remembered, as she strolled down the dusty street of the little seaside town, a big carryall purse tucked under her arm. She’d pulled off the winding mountain road onto a sidetrack after following an ancient, wheezing bus for most of the morning. She coughed and swore a great deal as she followed the side road until she reached the little town her guidebook said was Doros. It was supposed to be a bustling seaport. If this was bustling, she’d hate to see what the book would describe as a sleepy little hamlet. She’d parked her rented car outside the town’s small hotel and walked down an empty main street to the harbor. Bustling was apparently defined by the presence of some fishing boats and one small freighter tied up at an ancient stone quay. A large truck was parked alongside the ship. Avery large truck, about the size of three tractor-trailers. The sun glinted off its smooth, unmarked sides in an almost otherworldly way. Funny looking truck, she thought.Sort of futuristic. She had never seen anything so sleek and silver in the States. It was sort of like a space shuttle without the wings. Only much bigger. Years ago, she’d seen a space shuttle landin...
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