PREFACE

Every generation of thinkers has wrestled with the same fundamental question: which direction should humanity take to preserve what is best about itself? Throughout history, the answers have emerged from many different concerns. Sometimes they are spiritual, sometimes aspirational or inspirational. At other times, they are driven by survival, local necessity, or the desire to expand influence and territory. Yet we should not separate or discard these considerations. Rather, we should understand them as interconnected forces and recognize when each is most effective and beneficial.

I often explore these ideas through short essays, bumper-sticker observations, and the occasional meme. Here, however, I intend to approach them in a novella form. I anticipate that the final version will be complete my May, 2027.

Please enjoy a sneak preview of the first chapter and click the book cover image above to view the book trailer video.

“What surprises me most about humankind is that… by thinking anxiously about the future, we forget the present, such that we live in neither the present nor the future.” ~Anaïs Nin

Chapter 1.

 The Watkins Ascension Laboratory (WAL). Houston, TX

Spring 2034.

When Cyrus Kade was seven, his aunt took him to a planetarium show titled “Are We Alone?” He never lost his childlike curiosity. That curiosity eventually brought him success, but it wasn't enough. He told himself his intellect could serve more meaningful purposes, which convinced him he needed a more powerful direction—to save humanity.

It had been a year since the supply ship crashed four miles from the landing pad at Watkins Moon Base 1, the highly touted and relentlessly promoted US moonbase. Kade dropped onto a barstool at the Longshot Tavern. Six months in the lunar simulator with two other trainees had left him craving conversation and reassurance. He was aware that only six other customers were in the tavern at a time of day when, only a year ago, it would have been full of drinkers, gawkers, and the genuinely curious. His eyes and mind were still adjusting after isolation and boredom, compounded by the weight of the future on his shoulders. As he looked around the expansive building, he finally spoke to the elderly barkeeper.

“It’s a nice view from up here. Six years, and I’ve never been up here. I’m glad I got to see it before it disappears with the future.”

The barkeeper shrugged. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

“What’s your name?”

“They call me Casey. Not exactly right, but close enough.” He looked at Kade’s sixty-year-old face, then at his badge on the shirt pocket of the trainee jumpsuit. “Are you here to shut down the simulator, Mr. Kade?”

“Yes, but I just finished the full three-month training session before we close it.

“I have never seen such a high-ranking official endure that torture.”

“Considering all the torture I imposed on so many others, it’s the least I could do to keep my sanity.”

“Mr. Kade, all things considered, I don’t think you should believe it all falls on you.”

Kade had learned that leaders sometimes do not have the luxury of time to consider everything; that’s up to others.

“Thanks. You know, somehow my job became convincing people that all it takes to achieve mighty things is discipline and desire.”

“And money,” Casey added, seemingly unconcerned that he was addressing the NASA Administrator who had seemingly failed at a questionable and expensive adventure.

“And money. Lots of money. I didn’t realize the job was so big.” Kade nodded and chuckled. “It’s a whole different perspective; it makes you feel small,” he said, looking down at the training habitat poking out of the simulated lunar and Martian cratered surfaces. Now the bulldozers began dismantling the ‘future.’ Kade shifted his focus from the future to the past, holding his hands open as he surveyed the space again. “I didn’t realize it was so large until I spent time down there, looking up.”

Casey latched onto the past. “Yeah— amazing what those folks could do back in the 1960s. It looks nothing like those old photos. It’s changed a lot over the years, but it’s always served the same function, protecting us from the harsh conditions outside. Well, except for those years before, when they weren’t sure what to do with this mass of steel, concrete, and Lucite. “Okay, enough of my chitchat. You need a drink to celebrate your graduation... and your survival.”

Kade nodded. “Yes, sir.”

With a smile, Casey set a red plastic cup on the counter. “Here’s your eight ounces for the next four hours. I wish I had more variety for you, but—but I’m instructed to serve trainees only water or a lemon-water concoction, mostly water.” He shrugged, then retrieved a bowl of Cheez-its. “And snacks are limited. The same sparse selection they will encounter, or perhaps more accurately, endure on the moon base.”

Kade gave a dismissive chuckle. “I know you have something stronger for the paying customers.”

“But, sir, you’re dressed in a trainee uniform. I have my instructions. I promised to observe all regulations.”

“Those regulations are officially null and void.” Kade smiled as he raised his empty plastic cup. “Besides, regulations limit us.”

Casey nodded, raised his eyebrows, and tilted his head. “That reminds me of something I once read about baseball: the original intent of the game.” He pointed to an old photo montage of the Astrodome’s interior and the baseball field. Baseball was meant to be played on a field bounded by two perpendicular lines extending to infinity. There was no limit to how far a batter could hit the ball, and no limit to how much field a fielder could cover to catch it. But of course, they enclosed the field with fences and stands, and in this case, they put a roof on it when they discovered that people would pay to watch it.” He pointed up at the nylon ceiling and the powerful lighting structures that obstructed the original lamella.

“Crazy stuff. I grew up in Chicago—no roofs on our baseball fields. Domed stadiums are for wimps,” Kade said, followed by an audible inhalation.

“Houston is a lot like the Watkins base; you can’t play or enjoy baseball here without sun protection.” Casey shrugged and chuckled. “All it took was money—and a vision, I guess.” He set both hands on the counter and leaned toward Kade. “So, Mr. Kade, what’s the plan now?”

“I wish I knew. Some still want to revise the dream; make it bigger; take it to Mars. Others want to abandon it altogether.”

“What’s the dream, Mr. Kade? I mean, other than making a base on the Moon. What’s the dream?”

“Kade was silent as he thought. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“Not really. You said your job was to convince people, so it must not be that obvious. What do you tell them to convince them?”

“To save humanity.” What should have sounded sincere instead sounded rehearsed. “At least to move humanity forward. Damn, Casey, by now human spaceflight should be routine—damn fools,” he whispered, looking out the tavern window and scanning the blacked-out windows of the many vacated office spaces. “Damn. For the past 65 years, we’ve farted around and made little progress. Don’t people realize Newton gave us the math hundreds of years ago?”

“Well, Mr. Kade, maybe it’s just that the idea of long-duration human spaceflight is more difficult than we think or hope. Yeah, Newton gave us the math, but not too long ago Einstein showed us that reality is more complex than the math. Are you afraid that human spaceflight will never be routine?

“Kade stared at the untouched plastic cup. “Every day.” Then he looked up at Casey. “But if we're afraid of every disaster, every failure, every grave of every explorer, then we're finished as a species.” He picked up the cup and motioned it toward Casey.

Casey reached under the counter, pulled out a pint of Fireball, and poured Kade a shot. “Cheers.”

Kade downed his drink and set the cup down, signaling for a refill. Casey obliged. “So, Casey, what brought you here?”

“I’ve always liked space exploration. I was ten years old when the Soviets launched Sputnik. I have faithfully followed space endeavors since then. Oh, I’m a big baseball fan. I lived only 240 miles away in Dallas, and I had never seen the Astrodome. When the Ascension Group offered senior housing here, I bought a condo as soon as I could.” He pointed to what used to be the centerfield scoreboard, now a three-story structure of floor-to-ceiling windows and three tiers of residences. Above, a sign glowed with a hopeful, calm intensity— Moonlight Meadows. It will be a couple of months before the residents need to vacate.”

“And your tavern?”

“You're lucky, Mr. Kade. Today is the last day of operations. I shut it down tonight.” Kade hung his head and took a drink. Casey continued. “Oh, I have lived well past my ‘best by’ date, and I have plenty to tide me over— until I’m over. But I will miss talking to all the different folks who come in here. You get a different—better—perspective when you talk to folks with different backgrounds: families with kids on vacation, scientists, engineers, office workers, business folks, and college professors. Occasionally, they are interested in hearing my thoughts, which forces me to keep thinking.”

Kade looked up, making sure he spoke directly into Casey’s eyes. “I ruined your future. I’m sorry.” This time, those words felt genuine.

“Well, the good news is I have little time left to ruin. And no, Mr. Kade, you did not ruin my future. The responsibility for my future has always been mine. If someone in your position had to worry about everyone on the planet, little would get done. Humanity would not advance.” He looked around the skeletal building. “The funny thing about this place is that everybody came here to build the future.” He turned back to Kade. “But I do think we sometimes get so excited about the future that we forget to live in the now. No matter how good our intentions are, we dismiss the now—we surely harm the future.”

Kade just stared, not knowing what to say.

Casey quickly broke the silence. “Speaking of the future, I read that “Dragon” was nearing Saturn. I guess everything is going well.”

Kade sat back on the barstool. “Everything is nominal, as they say.”

“I was concerned because a lot of the mission was cut. It went from ‘Dragonfly’ to ‘Dragon.”

“You do follow the space program. What did you do before you retired to bartending?”

“Before I was a barkeep, I suppose I was an architect and construction contractor.” Casey shrugged off his words.

“That would explain it.”

“Explain what?”

“Why you see details others overlook—or choose to ignore.” Kade swallowed his drink and slammed the cup down. “Give me a refill and a cup for yourself.” Casey obliged. “Here’s to humanity's future, Casey.” They raised their cups to the sky.

Every day, Kade had convinced himself that the dream was necessary. The dream was doable. The dream was worth the risks. The dream would make him whole. But now, those words sounded less like certainty and more like prayer.