Cold, sterile air filled the pallid gray hallways of Vallis Capella University, one of the many accredited centers of higher education built on, or rather inside, Luna. Like all of the vast Lunar underground, Vallis Capella was constructed from a complex maze of massive domes burrowed within the crust of the moon so as to protect from the merciless solar winds that battered the surface above. The unfortunate side effect of this arrangement was a complete lack of natural sunlight, but then again this was the reality for most of the moon’s inhabitants—views of the starry sky were an expensive commodity few could afford. Worse still, the initial designers had been of little imagination and matched the color of the moon to its infrastructure almost obsessively, which meant that most of the architecture was tinted various shades of gray and silver, at least at the lower levels. The only hints of color beyond the drab monochrome of the great domes and the sickly whites of the overhead artificial lights were in the overbearing, garish advertisements that flashed on the sides of buildings and hallways, somehow even more lifeless than the rest of the environment.

Dr. Mila Mikhailovna Morozova shook herself from this depressing train of thought and continued forward through the dim corridor, heart pounding in her chest as she fidgeted with the cuffs of her tweed suit jacket. She pulled a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear and adjusted her black square-rimmed glasses; now was not the time for a diatribe on the monotony of Lunar decor, she internally reprimanded herself as she forced one foot in front of the other, marching with nervous purpose towards her final destination. She hadn't slept the previous night, too occupied with agonizing over what to do and how to go about doing it before finally settling on the current course of action. Admittedly the plan wasn’t nearly as well thought-out as she would’ve liked it to be, but she didn’t have much to go off of and wasn’t about to grant herself the luxury of second guesses. She had to know the truth of what she’d seen and heard last night, and the only way to do that, in her estimation, was through direct confrontation. The door of the university vice-president’s office came into view all too quickly, and for a moment she thought her hesitation might overtake her, but she pushed it down and took a deep, shaking breath before moving beyond the threshold.

“Ah, Dr. Morozova! Good to see you, I trust classes are well? Have a seat, please,” came a voice from behind a sturdy executive desk in the middle of the room. The vice-president was an older man, with slick gray hair that matched the Lunar landscape to an unsettling degree and beady brown eyes that glistened with perpetual suspicion. Mila pulled out the chair opposite the vice-president and sat down, her back ramrod stiff and agitation clearly evident in her movements.

“Thank you, Dr. Turnbull, they’ve been… as well as can be, under the circumstances,” she spoke with an edge that betrayed her inner thoughts, thoughts she’d long ago silenced when the Accord government made clear it would broker no opposition to the war effort. Professors who had expressed concern with jumping headlong into hostilities with an unknown alien force were promptly dismissed, and the few student protests that sprang up in the first months of the conflict had been quashed with such force that few dared broach the subject again for fear of being labeled a subversive. Mila was never one to keep her opinions hidden if she felt something was remiss, morally or otherwise, but her conscientious pacifism had been forcibly eschewed by the powers that be—until now, at least.

“Yes, the war has been difficult on us all,” Turnbull replied with a sanctimonious nod, drumming his fingers against the desk methodically as he scanned her up and down. Contemptible bastard. It hadn’t been particularly difficult for him to reallocate promised funding from her department to the engineering college to ‘assist with the war effort’, or to announce additional pay cuts across the board for much the same reason, or to find a cursory excuse when her office was ransacked to search for ‘compromising material’ by jackbooted goons during one of her classes.

“It feels like the student body grows smaller every day,” she said while avoiding his eyes, “So many young people, gone…” Her heart sank in her chest at the words; her students were probably the only reason she had continued in academia after a number of deeply unpleasant experiences with both the university administration and her magniloquent colleagues had left her searching for a reason to continue in her line of work. True, most of them took her courses for the required credit, but the treasured few who did take a genuine interest in her chosen field had made the drudgery of her middling career almost bearable.

“They’re fighting for a good cause, Mila, you know that,” he tried to reassure her, but his words were as hollow as the underground they inhabited, “These xenos, you’ve heard what they’re capable of, what they plan to do. They’re an existential threat to our way of life.” She took in a sharp breath—every day brought fresh reports of the terrifying new menace from beyond the stars, gargantuan beasts called ‘Affini’ molded from organic plant matter that devoured Terrans alive, either by swallowing them whole or grinding down their flesh and bone with jagged, thorny teeth. The ones that weren’t sufficiently palatable were forced to waste away laboring on distant mining colonies, tortured and beaten daily until their bodies simply gave out from exhaustion. The most disturbing stories, at least for Mila, claimed that the Affini possessed the scientific and medical knowledge to erase a person’s mind entirely, transforming them into a brainless husk to be paraded about as some obscene spoil of war. She wasn't sure where hearsay ended and fact began; she was keenly aware of the overwhelming propaganda effort to influence the hearts and minds of the Terran Accord, and the difficulty parsing between truth and falsehood meant trustworthy information was practically impossible to come by.

“I’m aware of the rumors,” she responded evenly, trying to keep her tone as neutral as possible. Turnbull stiffened, apparently not convinced.

“They’re no rumors, Mila,” his voice held a gravity that would have been thought unusual for a stereotypical moon-dweller, “I’ve seen it myself.” She suppressed a shudder and held up a hand.

“Still,” she pressed on, “I can’t help but feel that perhaps… perhaps this conflict has hardened us, made us forget our principles." Turnbull frowned and pursed his lips, lacing his fingers together in front of him.

“I’m sensing there’s something troubling you, Dr. Morozova,” his voice had an edge to it as he leaned closer over the desk, eyes narrowed dangerously, “Would you care to unburden yourself?” Icy blues met beady browns and the change in atmosphere was immediate. Gone was the early joviality of five-years-long colleagues, replaced by an uneasy air of tense suspicion, one that had become all too familiar over the past three years. No use dancing around it now, her mind whispered, Time to find out where the dog is buried. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and spoke.

“I know about the bioweapons project.” 

The whispered words rang in the air like a lightning strike. The vice-president blinked and attempted a look of confusion, but it was too late; the truth of the matter had already flashed across his eyes the instant the words had escaped her lips and no amount of denial or dissimulation would make her forget it. His knuckles were now frighteningly white.

“I’m sorry?” Turnbull croaked, “I haven’t the slightest—”

“I was working in Umbra Library last night,” she began, voice steady at first but anger rising with each word, “I overheard Hays and Brighton discussing it, I saw them erasing the evidence. Do you really think you’re going to get away with this?”

“Doctor—”

“Live Rinan test subjects?” she spat sharply, tone acidic and gaze furious as she clutched the arms of her chair ferociously, “I couldn't believe it, I still can't believe it! All the proselytyzing about what monsters the Affini are, how they’ll torture us, mutilate our minds—what the hell are we, then? How can Terra possibly claim the moral high ground when we’ve stooped to… this?”

“Doctor, I really think you should calm down, you’re upsetting yourself,” he replied, gesticulating with both hands towards her for emphasis, “Now I understand your feelings on the Rinan issue are—”

“They’re living, sentient beings!” The 'Rinan issue’, as her colleagues so graciously referred to it, was an especially sore spot for Mila. Apart from the obvious ethical and moral outrage arising from the criminal discrimination and subjugation they had been subjected to (obvious to her, at least—the vipers that passed for her co-workers were another story), her papa had been a navy man and had served a brief tour on Nyrina when it was still occupied by the Accord. He rarely spoke in detail about his time in the service, only that it was the greatest regret of his life and that he would never pick up a rifle again for as long as he lived. The night terrors told the rest of the story for him.

“They’re animals, Mila, and xenos on top of it,” Turnbull grunted, “Don't be a sentimentalist.”

Her face flushed with barely-contained rage and she took a firm grip of her pant leg to stop herself from doing something that would be both extremely satisfying, pacifism be damned, and incredibly stupid. “I will not countenance this… this… this barbarity,” she stammered out, righteous anger bubbling up from the bottom of her stomach, “I won’t.” The vice-president regarded her for a moment, then stood abruptly and straightened his tie, as if a sudden realization had washed over him like the powerful tides of the planet below which Luna controlled.

“There's nothing for you to countenance,” he proclaimed confidently, enunciating each syllable with careful precision, “Let’s examine this logically, Dr. Morozova: You found nothing concrete concerning these supposed experiments, correct?”

“They were erasing the files!” she protested, shooting out of her chair with venom in her voice.

“All the same,” Turnbull lifted his hand imperiously, “You have nothing material to corroborate your claims?”

“I—No.”

“Therefore, even if what you were saying was true,” the vice-president stepped out from behind the desk, a threatening aura emanating from his every movement, “There would be no way to prove these alleged experiments took place, yes?” A moment passed, and she let out a sigh.

“No."

“Well then, that would seem to be the end of it,” he shrugged and clapped his hands together, “Without any proof, my hands are tied.”

“You expect me to believe that the administration isn’t complicit in this?” This was quickly venturing from the infuriating into the absurd. How stupid did they think she was, exactly?

“I expect you’ll believe whatever you want, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re speaking nonsense.”

“Don’t play the fool with me, Turnbull.”

“I’m not playing anything, Mila Mikhailovna,” his lips curled up in a hatefully smug grin as his tongue rolled over the syllables of her patronymic, “Would you like to know what I think? I think that you were off doing your research in the library last night and, owing to the lateness of the hour and your propensity to overwork yourself, must have mistakenly thought you overheard someone, perhaps Dr. Brighton or Dr. Hays, perhaps someone else, discussing something about some sort of bioweapons experiment. Yes, that would seem to be the case—quite understandable, really. I can see why such a thing would upset you, Mila, but there's really no reason to jeopardize your career, not to mention your health and well-being, over something so dubious; such unnecessary stress really is unhealthy. Perhaps you ought to think about taking a vacation soon, no? You've been working yourself sick lately, and I would hate to see you put yourself out of commission over this." He put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a conciliatory pat.

"Now, I have a luncheon with prospective investors to get to, and if I’m not mistaken you have class in a half-hour. Think about what I said, and please stop by whenever you feel—I do so enjoy our little talks.” With that, the vice-president turned on his heel and exited the office, leaving Mila alone in stunned silence.

It took a moment for the initial shock at being brushed off so brusquely to wear off, but once it did it was replaced by an all-consuming, all-encompassing fury. She stormed out of the darkened room in a rage and blazed forward with frightening single-mindedness, the soft buzz of the overhead lights screaming in her ears as her head swam with a million thoughts at once. 

Goddamned equivocating son-of-a-bitch! He thinks he can get away with it (because he can). He thinks you're a coward (because you are). He thinks you're just going to keep your mouth shut (because you will).

The door to her office slid open soundlessly as she entered, taking a moment to survey what had become her home-away-from-home for the past five years as she sat down behind her weathered auburn desk. It was an admittedly cramped space, with barely enough room to fit three people at once on account of the desk taking up a good third of the total area, but a few framed pictures and certificates, one (exceedingly rare) hardback novel lovingly displayed on a black bookrest, and various notes and papers strewn about the desktop gave it a something of a lived-in feel.

Of course he does, you've never given reason to believe otherwise. You've never stood up for yourself a day in your life. You're afraid, you've always been afraid.

Was this it then? All she had to show for five years of teaching and twelve years of university? A few essays published in respected journals, a pithy award or two, and an expensive copy of her favorite book? Had she really been willing to ignore the aching, gnawing feeling in the back of her mind and in the pit of her stomach that everything about her life was going horribly wrong for a few simple base comforts? She’d compromised herself and her principles over and over and over to maintain… this?

And you’ll do it again, too. Too many wolves in the woods—that's why you never finished it, that's why you're still here. Faint-hearted, vacillating, spineless!

No! She could not, she would not, she must not—not anymore. But what could she do? She couldn't stop the project, she didn't even know where the experiments were being performed, and she certainly didn't possess the expertise necessary to attempt any ill-conceived rescue operation. She could speak to... but she could speak to no one. Her colleagues were all either opinionated old windbags who didn’t bother to disguise their contempt for those they deemed not up to whatever arbitrary standard they fancied, or scheming careerists whose friendly smiles and sharp eyes failed to conceal the condescension that dripped from every word they spoke. Even if they shared her sympathies, they would be far too wrapped up in their own petty arguments and job advancements to be of any kind of use. Her students would be far more receptive to what she had to say, but she couldn't and wouldn’t risk their safety to sate her conscience. That left going public with the information—in fact, it might have been the only thing within her power at this point. But Turnbull's roundabout assessment of that option had been essentially correct; she hadn't a shred of evidence to use to her advantage, and what little she did have could be distorted with alarming ease. Another, much more foreboding thought entered her mind: a research experiment of this kind would have to be commissioned by the highest levels of government, which would naturally mean the involvement of a certain unmentionable four-letter organization. If they were involved, then it really wouldn't matter what she knew—if she made any noise, then they'd make sure she wouldn't remember much of anything, if anything at all.

She pulled herself out of this mental spiral before it could continue; this was getting her nowhere. She had to draw the line somewhere, and damn the consequences. There was one option left, one that she hadn't been willing to consider up until this point due to its inexorability, but she was out of alternatives. Hell, was she really considering this? Their propaganda might be excessively saccharine and, frankly, impossible to believe in the slightest, but if they cared half as much about life in the universe as they claimed then they would do right by the information she would provide them. It might technically be treason, but so what? She was done hiding in her ivory academic tower, content to be entertained by paltry bibs and baubles while the whole world around her went to hell in a handbasket. With renewed determination, she pulled out a spare sheet of paper and began to write furiously, words flowing from thought to pen to paper like so many streams of running water. The churning rhythm of her arm matched the frantic beating of her heart as she finished her missive, then after a final once-over she cleared off her desktop and placed her completed resignation letter squarely in the middle. She grabbed the novel from the bookstand and left without a second glance behind her.

The next half-hour was largely a blur for Mila, adrenaline rapidly coursing through her veins as she raced to plan out her next moves. A quick message over the university's communication system let her students know that class had been canceled for the day—a day off, or at least an extra few hours of sleep, was the least she could offer them before unceremoniously disappearing off the face of the planet. She felt a pang of guilt for leaving without having finished the coursework with her pupils, but she doubted that they would be nearly as dispirited. It wasn't as though she had much choice either; with all the subtlety she'd displayed in her letter, she needed to hurry off-world before the university realized the full extent of what she was planning and decided to eliminate the problem before it could metastasize.

The narrow corridors of Vallis Capella soon gave way to the larger, crowded hallways that connected the Lunar infrastructure, hundreds of people milling about their day as though there was no existential alien threat to be heard of outside the silent gray walls. She supposed that the stereotypes about moon-folk held some basis in reality after all, but even here, in the heart of the Accord, the signs of the conflict were becoming harder and harder to ignore. Supplies and foodstuffs had steadily dwindled as prices rose, fewer and fewer people were seen out and about during the day, and a general sense of dread hung over the towering domes like a thick cloud. She hastily ducked in and out of the moving throng of humans, nearly tripping over herself as she breathlessly sped past the many idlers and stragglers on her way to her apartment. Luckily, she had managed to find herself a place nearby that made the journey between work and home a mercifully short one.

She pressed her identification badge into the scanner next to the doorway and entered. It wasn’t the smallest flat on Luna by any means, and had a separate living room and bedroom that, although cramped in the same way most places in the lower levels were, she found comfortable enough for her tastes. The walls were, of course, the same stale shade of wretched gray, but she managed to somewhat relieve the monotony with a chestnut-colored armchair and coffee table, as well as an inconspicuous-looking couch that hid a number of illegally reproduced paperback novels beneath a false bottom under the middle cushion (literary subscriptions had become far too pricey to maintain during the war, never mind her personal feelings on having to pay routinely for the access in the first place). She sat down on the armchair and drummed out a waltz on the spine of her priceless tome as she considered where to go from here.

Public transportation was, logically, the only option if she wanted any chance of getting off-planet. Private transport, like the sky-views, was expensive enough to be out of reach for the majority of Luna's population, including Mila. The only problem with that was, well, embarrassing as it was to admit, she was terribly afraid of space travel. Having the empty, soul-sucking vacuum of eerie blackness be but a few meters of iron and steel away from her all-too-fragile flesh, so easy to rip and tear, made her queasy to contemplate. No matter. She would just have to grin and bear it.

Then again, public transport would also leave her open to being discovered. She would have to register under her own name to get a ticket (also expensive, but less so than if she attempted to book a private flight), which would not only give away her plans but her destination as well—and where was she going to go anyway? It wasn’t like she knew where the frontlines of the conflict were, and if Turnbull and the administration were convinced she was a threat then all it would take was a few calls up through the system and you-know-who would have all the information necessary to locate her. They'd probably blow whatever unlucky cruiser she happened to board into dust and ash and smoke, just to be safe.

The plan was getting less and less tenable by the second. What the hell had she been thinking? Had she really just announced her intentions in the resignation letter? She had been in such a blind rage that she couldn't rightly remember. What if one of her students came to the office looking to obtain the material they'd missed for the day? No, that was incredibly unlikely—but what if they did? If they didn't report her directly to the aforementioned four-letter organization, then they would be seen as compromised as well... no, no! She had to get back, had to fix this disastrous, horrible mistake and find another way to—

The shrill triple cry of klaxons and flashing of bright red lights from outside ripped her from her reverie like a torrent of cutting ice water. Her hands flew up to her ears as her nascent tinnitus loudly protested the unexpected bombast, causing her to double over as if crushed beneath the weight of some unseen force. A terrible scream arose, soon joined by a cacophonous chorus of shouting and clamoring as the whole of the Lunar underground erupted into mass chaos. Once she’d managed to get the ringing in her ears under control, however, Mila found herself possessed by the exact opposite of the expected reaction: relief.

She laughed, actually laughed. It seemed that the Fates or God or whatever had approved of her decision and decided to lend a helping hand, such as it were (admittedly she hadn’t prayed in ages, and apart from her Orthodox upbringing and the occasional muttered ‘gospodi bozhe’ she wasn’t particularly religiously inclined). No need to find a way off the moon now that the Affini were already here—they would come to her. The wheel of fortune had turned once more, and Mila found herself its prime beneficiary.

She let herself unclench for the first time in… how long had it been since she’d truly relaxed? Years, at least. She sank back into her armchair and nabbed her book from off the floor where it had fallen, carefully turning it over and opening it to inspect for any damage. Thankfully finding none, she turned to the first page and began reading the novel for what must have been the hundredth time; nothing for her to do now but wait for the Affini to arrive so she could blow the whistle on the whole sordid affair and finally do something worthwhile, rather than waste away her life in the recesses of superfluous academic analysis. Smiling genuinely for the first time in a long while, she patiently poured over the opening of her story:

One hot spring evening, just as the sun was going down, two men appeared at Patriarch's Ponds…