[ WP ] You are in command of a central lunar base when something got inside .

Cigarettes were banned on the station, so I was going to have to fine myself. I did it with dogged regularity, dropping coins into a small jar that I kept on the kitchen countertop with a stern sad face taped to the front. And, in the spirit that you need to be careful what you wish for, I always lit a second cigarette after the first, savoring the burn through my nose and throat like dragon smoke. I emptied the jar every Saturday, of course. There were certain benefits to being judge, jury, and executioner on the moon. 
 
 The idea was to create a bioregenerative life support system for a future military base, a kind of all-seeing eye from space capable of monitoring and launching nuclear weapons. The funding had come in quickly after the Chinese rocket tests in 2026, though people complained that the money could have been better spent diverting water to a drought-choked American west. To the horror of Californians, farming in space won out. So that left me as the head of the food bioengineering division, tasked with creating the first lunar plant growth. 
 
 It was exciting at first, a heady few years of innovation, until more and more of the crew shipped back to Earth as their jobs were automated by robotics. And then the money dried up as the government turned its attention back to more grounded matters at home. As it turns out, space defense is harder and harder to justify as your own states threaten secession. 
 
 Since the base remained a strategic asset, someone had to make sure that things were running smoothly. Taking a last drag of my cigarette, I picked up my coffee cup and checked the status of the lettuce and spinach. It was growing well, even better now that I had adjusted the fertilizer to account for small shifts in microgravity. A long, silver arm glinted in the fiberoptic sunlight as a droid tended to a glistening head of green, working in tandem with a water drone just overhead. Fortunately, total automation was still years away, if not longer. People had been spooked anyway after what happened to the Russians on Mir-3, and the robotic automation solutions department of NASA was scrapped. For now, flesh and blood was necessary on the moon. 
 
 I always got a kick at looking at the readouts for the day, reflecting the current tonnage of all materials on board. The organics section was generated in two columns - plant-based and non-plant based life - and sent, I assume, to someone on Earth to monitor my progress. It was funny to think of that way, that I and my entire career were reduced to a single column of non-plant life. I usually clocked in at around 182 pounds, give or take. I wondered if anyone cared, if anyone looked at my non-plant based weight with a stern eye. Perhaps someone would look at the readout today, at my weight of 487 pounds… 
 
 Four hundred and eighty-seven pounds. That couldn ’ t be right. The O2 sensor must be malfunctioning, or the tension cables, or - and then I saw it, the flashing red light that I ignored in my morning stupor. 
 
 CRITICAL BREACH IN WATER MAIN 1. I looked at it uncomprehendingly for a minute, then leapt off of my chair towards the stairs leading down into the station ’ s core. *Why hadn ’ t the alarm sounded? * I skidded to a stop at the command center, furiously searching for the repair bots. A breach in the water main could mean catastrophic station failure. The breach should have been immediately isolated and targeted for repair. *Why was it still leaking? * The stairs spiraled down and down like the interior of a cavernous shell, coiling into the heart of the base. My lungs burned from the recycled air, the panic of hearing a sudden horrible twist of metal. 
 
 Finally I was there at the water main, at the glass door that was cracked from the inside, at the flickering florescence overhead that crackled and spit in the shower bursting through a hole in the yawning pipe above. On the ground was the robot technician, its eyes sparking in the water, its abdomen ripped open, its insides still jerking with milky fluid. I heaved my weight against the door, struggling to reach the control panel on the other side. The water was cold, freezing, below freezing, and I yelped as I punched in the numbers on the console, my breath fogging in the icy air. Even with shutoff achieved, I doubted the station would survive. 
 
 Water Main 1, of course, was the only source of non-reclaimed water on base. Recognizing that lunar vegetation would need some amount of fresh water, the station was built directly on top of the moon ’ s polar ice cap, pumping ancient subsurface water into the rows of lettuce and peppers and radishes upstairs. Water, in fact, from a depth never really discovered or explored. I rememberer it was tested for bacteria, for any form of life, and found sterile. Apparently they were wrong. 
 
 I clenched my hands. They were weapons on base, leftover from when the government assumed troops would soon be moving in. If I could reach them before it reached me, I had a chance. *If. *
