(Note: I changed the original crater from Gauricus to Pitatus because of scale. A discrepancy between the ISS-inspired mmHg reading and spacesuit psi has been fixed.)

The MAF is a marvellous machine and only a select few have the opportunity to pilot it. It may not be a svelte beauty like the Aether, NASA's second generation space shuttle, but no other spacecraft can do what it can. Aula fastens her safety harness and flicks the switch for their main display. The MAF's interior lights dim. Adrenaline starts trickling into her veins.

Because they lack a GPS system, the MAF's computer relies on coordinates and maps of the Moon's physical features. Every pilot learns to fly by instrumentation only, although flying during a lunar night is uniquely challenging. It's why Nakamura tasked her with this. She and Harvey have the most experience, and it's an excuse to get away from the constant interviews and Harvey's chilly politeness. She thought he had forgiven her quietly some time over the last decade, but he didn't. His anger only lay dormant.

"Computer uplink good. Readout good." Ward's voice crackles slightly. "MAF, it is a go."

"Copy, ILUB-2."

"Outside platform is secured," Kelly mutters and pushes back in her seat. "We're five-by."

Aula flicks the cap off the ignition. "Three, two, one...launch."

The MAF surges straight up from the surface. They're far enough away from the Apollo shell to avoid showering it with dust. It's tempting to look, although there's nothing visible beyond the MAF's lights. She keeps her eyes fixed on the featureless black screen with outlines of a contour map along with their altitude, speed, heading, and a horizon line.

A shudder runs through the stick, then nothing. No resistance. The ghostly overlay shows they're rising farther and farther from the lunar surface. Even after years of simulations, a cold thrill races through her limbs.

She glances at the top of the screen. "Clean launch."

"Understood, MAF."

They rocket southwest over Terra Sanitatis. While Aula monitors their course, Kelly calls out stages in their flight. The highland's elevation rises nearly 2 km between each low-lying mare. Their flightpath will be too far north to see the Rupes Altai, an escarpment nearly 427 km long, but they'll pass over the Apollo 16 site. Unlike lunar maria, highlands appear light grey and are comprised of anorthosites. To her, a rock's a rock, but she's seen Bauer study anorthosite in the lab. It's fine-grained, high in calcium, and full of tiny crystals. Although rare, if one has half the usual calcium, it has a strange iridescence called labradorescence. She's seen it only once. It's as startling as the blue feathers of a mallard drake.

A deep ache settles into Aula's body as she sits back. Proof of a hard day's work. The tight cramp in her side is nearly gone. She fishes out the uneaten half of her power bar from the compartment against her left leg. The moment chocolate hits her tongue, hunger hits full force.

"Y'know what I miss? Sausies." Kelly sighs wistfully. "In Galway, there was a shop that made the best sausies I have ever tasted."

"Don't go saying that shit around the guys."

She tsks. "I'm not daft."

The screen flashes white and a deep shudder runs through the MAF. Aula drops her power bar and takes the stick in case it's a computer failure. It's not. Another shudder runs through the flyer. When the light dims, a cloud of regolith rises directly in their path. Everything slips back into darkness. Then a string of small flashes pepper across the original impact site like cluster bombs. She does a quick calculation and makes a course alteration. They start veering away. Flying straight through a massive ejection of lunar dust would be folly. Not only would the regolith sand their machine like a piece of wood, large rocks could be blasted back up by the impact.

"God Almighty," Kelly mutters.

Aula presses the comm. "ILUB-2, MAF. Multiple lunar impacts at 18.5ºS 1.2ºE. We're adjusting our heading to—"

A deafening crunch. She feels the force of it through her body. The MAF's pitch immediately changes and an alarm starts bleating. She recognizes it from countless hours simulating this exact scenario. The small horizon line onscreen starts to tilt. They're banking right into the ejection of lunar dust.

"I didn't catch that, MAF." Ward's accent rolls over the comm. "Repeat that."

She leans forward. "Multiple lunar impacts at 18.5ºS 1.2ºE. There's been a collision with the MAF, over."

There's a beat of silence. "I understand."

It's serious, but not fatal. Not yet. The MAF has a layer of self-healing polymer. If punctured, a special resin inside the layer will mix with oxygen and polymerize to make a solid plug. Aula glances at the readouts of the engines. E2 is flashing red and losing fuel. The MAF relies on liquid propellant. Part of that is liquid oxygen. If it's venting over exposed or damaged wiring inside the craft, all that's needed is a spark. It would ignite like hairspray over a Zippo. If the flame reaches the can, well. They're the can.

Aula starts flicking off fuel and power. "Shut down drill on engine 2. Entering spin."

"We see it."

The MAF's computer puts them into a controlled spin to compensate for lost stability. They pull a few G's, which is mildly uncomfortable in lunar gravity. Her power bar slides across the floor. The display compensates and shows they're altering course. She looks at Kelly, who's already hoisting up a red binder. A small cord keeps it from flying around the cockpit should she drop it. The movement makes her hair fall over her shoulder.

"Is the reading on E2 correct?" Volkov's serrated English cuts over static. She frowns at the comm. He and his team should have finished their shift by now.

"That's correct, Moscow. E2 is off."

A new alarm begins to sound. It has a distinct high and low warble. When Aula looks up, she already knows what she'll see. The ATM PRESS light is glowing red. Pressure inside the MAF is dropping.

Kelly glances between her binder and the instrumentation panel. "We're down to 248 in here."

The MAF is pressurized at 1/3 atmosphere, which is roughly 251 mmHg. It's close to the pressure in their suits, which sits around 222 mmHg, to minimize the time they need to adjust between the Z-1's pressure and the craft's. They have emergency packs within arm's reach that hold 10 minutes of air, but what matters is balancing resources. Venting gas may destabilize their spin, which will have to be compensated for with more fuel. When either pressure or fuel becomes dangerously low, they'll have to land and slip into their Z-1's docked at the back. Small lifeboats with a partially depleted air supply of their own, but it buys them a few hours. If they get close enough, a few hours means rescue via SEV. It also means they'll strand their one and only MAF.

"Loss of 0.87 mmHg a minute," Ward replies. "Check your reading, Kelly."

She wipes her forehead. "Yes, that's right."

The Purbach crater slides by on the display and some tension unspools in Aula's core. They're getting close to ILUB-2. She glances at the engine readouts again. Their consumption is back within expected parameters, but they're at a quarter tank.

"Down to 246." Kelly's profile is silhouetted against the emergency pack's plastic cover, which is lit up by the screen's light. "It's slowing. We're losing 0.84 now."

Aula prompts the computer for confirmation. Depending on the direction and angle of impact, whatever struck them could've also struck the landing gear. A set of green text start to file down on the bottom part of the screen. She leans against the spin and stares out the window. It's like a cut-out of black velvet. No flecks of debris. No eyes.

She abruptly faces forward. They're over the shores of Mare Nubium now. Their descent is a little sharp. She can hear Kelly suck in a deep breath, hold it, and then exhale like she's doing Anti-G Straining Maneuvers without closing her throat. Sustained G's force blood into or away from the brain. If they don't counteract it, they risk G-LOC.

"Losing any colours?" Aula asks without taking her eyes off the screen.

Kelly swallows and her jaw makes an audible click. "I've the whole rainbow. Just trying not to barf on this lovely machine."

The low-fuel light glows red. Aula squares her jaw and plays the emergency landing in her mind. 

"Fuel is at two minute mark," Volkov says.

"Understood."

Kelly puts the binder away. "We're down to 245."

"Martin is leaving Pitatus, MAF." Ward's voice is devoid of tone. "If you can make it past Pitatus Z, he can pick you up."

"Right." Aula takes stick.

Her hands feel like dead twigs and the the MAF responds sluggishly. Mare Nubium stretches out underneath them in the darkness.

"There's a nice bit of Moon after Purbach J," Kelly says breathlessly like she just ran a city block. "We're down to 244 mmHg."

They clear the lip of Purbach J and there it is. A relatively even expanse of regolith stretching from Purbach to Pitatus, and bordered by their satellite craters. It feels like an eternity passes before the broken slopes of Pitatus Z appear on the screen's horizon. Aula starts to ease out of their spin and throttles back on engine 3. Their altitude drops and a thrill races up her throat. The MAF's lights pick up more details in the regolith. Some places show a sharp descent into shadow. It's impossible to tell if they're steep or not.

"Sixty seconds," Volkov says.

Aula blinks sweat out of her eyes. "Copy."

Kelly grips her chair. "Ten meters."

She starts to change the direction of thrust while throttling engine 3 back even further. It's a delicate balance. Something's pushing on their right side. Her power bar slides somewhere behind her to the opposite wall. She tenses her entire arm and holds the stick in position.

"Eight meters."

"Fifty seconds," Volkov says.

The MAF slowly relinquishes its spin. Aula can feel it fighting her. She waits until the inevitable banking starts before completely shutting E3 down. Without its thrust, they hover evenly on two engines. It's like balancing a tanker on a tightrope.

"Thirty seconds."

"Six meters."

She throttles power back a little faster. Dust kicks up onscreen. A slight wobble nearly pushes the MAF onto its side.

"Fifteen seconds."

"Four meters."

Aula barely moves her hand. Her eyes stay fixed on the screen.

"Two meters."

"Ten seconds," Volkov's voice has lost its growl. "Nine, eight, seven, six...."

"One meter."

"....Five, four, three...."

The MAF creaks and grows quiet. The pressure alarm keeps warbling louder than ever. Aula exhales slowly and lets go of the stick.

"We've landed, Moscow."