The Sea of Tranquility is pitch black. It's nothing like the old movies with Armstrong and Aldrin loping down a sun-lit slope of regolith. They're inside a small pool of light. If Apollo 11 had gone the slightest bit differently, the remains of the world's first moonwalkers would be here, too.

Kelly steps out of the Apollo's reflective white shell. "It was a grand undertaking, wasn't it? Considering the technology they had."

"It was," Ward replies mildly over comm. "A pity so many people in their own country don't believe they did it."

Aula rolls her eyes and straightens up to survey her work. The panel is bolted and the Electrodynamic Dust Shield is back on. She turns so the lights on her spacesuit shine across the entire solar panel. They gleam dark bronze. No particulates of dust or punctures mar their surface.

Their panels are larger than would be possible back on Earth and provide ILUB-2 the majority of its power during daylight. At night, microbial fuel cells fill in the gap using human waste. It's a delicate balance between each system. Out here at the Apollo 11 landing site, far from the nearest engineer, that balance is even more crucial. With sunlight coming at week's end, it's essential that the solar panels be ready. They can't be insulated by regolith and mornings mean moon fountains. A flurry of statically charged dust like a sandstorm that accompanies every dawn and dusk. Anything exposed without a shield will be choked by it. Besides being extremely abrasive, lunar dust also darkens surfaces, which causes them to absorb more heat. It's critical when days on the Moon can push 125 ℃. The Apollo era equipment has already taken a lot of punishment over the years.

"Shite bag."

Aula turns around.

Kelly's fallen onto her face. She struggles to stand up in front of the soft module shell, which spans over the landing site like a large tent. Ever since it became a UNESCO site, public outcry over its degradation was constant. One of the justifications for the International Lunar Base Program had been to preserve historical landing sites for future generations. Every few weeks, two of them have to travel half-way across the damn Moon to perform maintenance. The shell itself has a passive lotus coat that repels dust and an active EDS powered by a solar panel. It has more protection than the habitat at EVAC C.

She offers a hand. Kelly accepts it and uses her as a stabilizing point to stand back up. "Thanks."

"Turn around." Ward's voice rises an octave. "Turn to the shell, both of you."

Their Z-1 spacesuits have an EDS woven into the fabric, which prevents any dust from sticking to them, but the same cannot be said for Kelly's camera. It somersaults across the ground and makes a perfect dusty arc through the shell's unzipped flap. Aula turns just as it disappears inside and feels anger spike through her chest. If the camera lands on one of the footprints or hits the equipment inside, the damage will be irreparable. It attaches to to their suit because of this exact scenario.

She looks at Kelly, who's ashen. The cameras on their helmets record everything, but Kelly's the anthropologist here. She understands more than their careers are at stake.

Aula switches to Russian and says, "Moscow, we have a foreign object inside the Apollo shell."

There's eight full seconds of silence. She can just picture everyone at TsUP staring at the screen. Communication oscillates regularly between Houston and Moscow. Both America and Russia installed relay satellites around the Moon. ILUB-2 can use both systems and it satisfies the ILBP's two biggest contributing nations. They have the Russians today. She's certain Ivan Volkov will appreciate the irony of trying to preserve the landing site of their old rivals. His voice is rumbling and stern, and reminds her of her old instructor pilot.

"We see it," Volkov says and there's another pause. "Get back inside."

"Understood."

She steps in first and has a moment of vertigo. It  looks like she's floating in purest, deepest blackness. Only two round cut-outs of light show that there's any ground underneath her feet. She steps aside so Kelly can follow her in. They both stand in a partitioned section of the site. In an emergency module, this would be part of the airlock system, but now it serves as a decontamination area. Dust is inevitable, though their newer Z-1's and the shell's shielding cut it down significantly. The problem here is introducing movement and disturbing the site. The Moon's top layer of regolith is extremely fine and prone to kick up in low gravity, which makes the footprints very fragile. Lunar weather has already caused significant degradation. All it takes is a careless puff of dust from their boots and a piece of history is altered forever.

Kelly struggles to bend at the waist. "Do you see it?"

They peer around the front section of the shell. The camera is inside a thick white casing to withstand the environment. It should shine, but there's nothing except stirred grey dust wafting around their feet. 

"No," Ward says. "Nothing." 

Volkov hums in the back of his throat. 

Aula shuts her eyes and reins in her temper. God only knows what her blood pressure looks like. With the tenth anniversary approaching, scrutiny from Earth is more invasive than ever. The fact that she drew this maintenance slot only makes it worse. Major Reed leads major fuck up at Moon landing.

"I'll have to go up on the track," Kelly says. Her Russian has an odd rollicking lilt. "Moscow?"

There's another long pause. Inside the shell, a small walkway spans over the site so there's no foot traffic on the ground itself. A day will come when all this simply deteriorates beyond recognition. The Moon is an extreme environment with or without a fancy tent. Topmost regolith is far too fine to make casts of Armstrong and Aldrin's footprints. With Kelly's camera, they hoped to take photos of the site and use 3D printing to create an exact replica for succeeding generations. It will be the crowning irony if this same camera destroys part of the site.

"Negative on that. Reed, make visual."

She glances at Kelly, who stares straight ahead. This isn't her area of expertise, but the message is clear. Kelly screwed the pooch.

"Roger."

Aula hefts herself up on the track. While the Z-1 is more flexible than an EMU, it's still a large pressured mitt around her body. She takes a thin tether out from her belt and hooks it onto the railing. Every time she does this, she thinks of Batman's utility belt. It looks flimsy, but it keeps her from doing a belly flop if she loses her balance.

"I need your lights, Kelly."

Kelly turns and the track is lit up.

They've all practiced doing this in the Neutral Buoyancy Lab. Aula slowly inches her away across in a cut-out of light. Metal glints in the corner of her eye. It's the descent stage of Apollo 11. She resists the urge to sneak a peek at it and divides her concentration between her feet and the vibrations in the track. 

"Stop. Stop now." Volkov's voice whip cracks inside her helmet. "To your lower left."

Aula's near the middle of the track. She swivels one of her helmet's lights and catches something silvering in the darkness. It sends a dull thud through her chest. If Kelly's camera smacked into the old American flag, there's going to be no shortage of shit stirred up on Earth.

But no. The flag was knocked over when the ascent stage launched. It would be threadbare, bleached by sun, and grimed by dust. This is still upright. This is the Solar Wind Composition Experiment. It once supported an aluminum and platinum sheet to analyze the solar wind. Kelly's camera leans against it like one of the Apollo astronauts set it down and forgot it there.

"I see it."

"Good. Stand-by."

It looks like it would be a trifling thing to simply lean over and pick the camera up. It's easy to assume their movements could be equally nonchalant here, but most of their EVAs are choreographed and planned to the finest detail. They're veering further from the anticipated time and tasks of this moonwalk. Not just for them, but for dozens of people back on Earth. She can see them leaning toward each other, picking up their phones, trying to solve this in the window of time they have left. Every second that ticks by is a small agony.

She tries to imagine the camera's trajectory as it somersaulted inside the module shell. There's no obvious indentations in the regolith. Nothing that catches her lights. It's possible the camera bounced somewhere in the front partition and then sailed clean inside, but it's too optimistic for her taste. She's learned to distrust optimism. It's just another word for carelessness.

Kelly shifts back and forth, obviously uncomfortable. The lights mounted to her helmet catch on something curved and silver on the Eagle's ladder. It's too far away to see clearly, but Aula knows what it is. They all do. It's the plaque Apollo 11 left behind. Here men from the planet Earth first set foot on the Moon July 1969, A. D. We came in peace for all mankind. A nice sentiment, as they go. It was quoted a lot at the funerals.