Enforced Vacation

The moonview is beautiful this time of year, and I don't give a flip about it.

It doesn't matter if I'm 239,000 miles out of my jurisdiction, I'm a detective and I can't turn that off. Every person who walks by in the lobby is a walking mess of evidence of their deeds and misdeeds. A woman with a tan line for a wedding ring is running her hands up a man's leg at the hotel bar, and as his legs slide apart just so, she's asking him his name and if he'd like to come up to her room. He's got a wedding ring on his finger, but he isn't saying no, and he throws back the last of his beer in a single go.

Adultery is one of the more common motives for the homicides that cross my desk. She's cheating on him, he's cheating on her. Someone gets passionate with a kitchen knife, and then their business is my business.

A have to turn my head away when I catch sight of a woman slipping a marble ashtray into her bag just a few feet away from me. I'm not on duty, and that's hardly an arrest worth making.

I force my attention to the moonview. It's a large, clear wall that gives a nice view of the moon and the stars. The great, big, weightless black of space. It's supposed to give a clear shot of the earth as well, but mostly it's just a round cluster of satellites and debris. A shooting star drops across the sky, if it can even be called the sky when you're off-planet, and I track it as far as I can before it disappears.

“Excuse me, young man,” someone says, and an old woman is smiling at me from a face of deep set wrinkles. “Do you mind if I sit with you a moment?”

I want to grimace, but I manage something a little more polite and nod. She sinks onto the couch next to me, giving a pleased noise to be off her feet, and setting her purse between us.

“My name is Beatrice,” she says, smiling at me expectantly. This means she expects conversation. She probably wants to make small talk about her grandchildren and whatever pets she might have.

“Frederick,” I say, inclining my head.

“Oh, Frederick is a lovely name. I had a cousin called Frederick when I was growing up,” she says, looking pleasantly nostalgic. “That was such a long time ago of course. He became an accountant.”

“Isn't that nice?” I ask, forcing a smile.

“Oh, no. Not at all. He grew bored quickly, and joined the military. Of course, just after he was finished being trained that war started up. So many decades ago, now, but I still remember the day we found out he'd been killed in action.”

Ugh. Instant guilt. I fidget uncomfortably in my seat. “That's unfortunate.”

“Very.” She sighs. “He seemed happy, though. In the end, that's what matters, I suppose. What's brought you to the moon?”

“Vacation. Enforced.” I don't want to be here. I don't want to be in this conversation, or on this lump of space rock, or in this hotel. I want to be at my desk, or out following a lead.

“Enforced? You must be a dedicated worker! My son is a dedicated worker. He's why I'm here, you know.” She looks all pleased again, like she wasn't just remembering her cousin getting killed in a war that was built up on lies. “He's getting married this weekend, and they decided to have the wedding here. Isn't that wonderful?”

“Sounds great,” I mutter. It's good that she can't seem to read basic social cues, because I'm radiating aggressively antisocial vibes. “I'm sure the service will be lovely.”

She nods. “Oh, yes. All the family will be there. It's been a long time since the family has been all in one place, you know.”

“I'm sure that will be fun.”

“Hello!” A chipper voice cuts in, and I'm seriously considering buying a bottle of whiskey and spending the rest of this week locked in my room. “My name is Cynthia, and as a representative of Galactic Travels, I would like to invite both of you to join myself and other guests on a moonwalk! Suits will be provided by the hotel, and the walk will take approximately one hour.”

She grins brightly, then leaves us. Something beeps, and I look over to see the old woman checking a message on a digital tablet. As she reads, her entire demeanor changes. She sinks into herself, crumples, and the happiness drains out of her expression, replaced with something hurt and distraught. I should take this as my chance to leave, but she looks broken hearted.

“Ma'am?” I ask. “Are you alright?”

She sniffs, watery. “The wedding isn't going to be taking place here.”

“I don't follow,” I say.

“The wedding was never going to be here.” She's trying not to cry, I can tell. “They didn't want me there making any sort of fuss.”

Oh, shit. That makes me feel low. “That's, uh-”

“Oh, it's my own fault,” she says, pulling a hanky from her purse and dabbing at her eyes. “I talk too much, you know. And I get lost sometimes. Can't quite remember what I'm talking about, or why.”

I watch her dab at her eyes again, trying to keep her composure. It makes my chest hurt, and makes me angry. Angry at her kids, and a little disgusted at myself. I hadn't thought much of her conversation, either. Maybe, if she'd kept talking at me for twenty years I wouldn't really want her at my wedding, either.

No. I would never be that cruel, even at my drunkest. I reach out, putting a hand over hers. “How about I take you on that moonwalk?”