PREFACE
Every generation has wrestled with the same enduring question: What course should humanity follow to preserve what is best about itself?
Across history, the answers have emerged from many sources. At times they have been rooted in faith and spiritual conviction. At others, they have arisen from aspiration, inspiration, necessity, survival, or the pursuit of influence, discovery, and expansion. These motivations are often treated as competing forces, but they rarely operate independently. Instead, they form an interconnected framework through which societies define their values, confront their challenges, and shape their future. The real task is not choosing one while discarding the others, but understanding how each contributes and recognizing when each best serves humanity.
I often explore these ideas through short essays, aphorisms, and the occasional meme. This time, however, I have chosen a different path. Rather than discussing these themes directly, I hope to examine them through the lens of fiction in a novella.
I expect to finish the work by May 2027. Until then, I invite you to enjoy this preview of the first chapter. When you’re ready, click the book cover above to watch the trailer and glimpse the journey ahead.
“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 Moon base. 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, 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 all things; 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; it makes you feel small,” he said, looking down at the training habitat protruding from the simulated lunar and Martian landscape. Now the bulldozers began dismantling the ‘future.’ Kade shifted his focus from the future to the past and held 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.”
“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 with this place now? I know the Ascension Group is being coy about it, but maybe you have some idea.”
“I wish I knew. Some think they’re tearing it down to build a new stadium for the Astros. That makes some sense. It would be next to their football field.”
“Besides the building, what are NASA’s plans?”
“Some still want to keep chasing 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 is the dream?”
Kade frowned. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not really. You said your job was to convince people, so maybe it isn’t that obvious.
What do you tell them to convince them?”
“To save humanity.”
Every day, Kade struggled to convince himself that the dream was necessary. The dream was doable. The dream was worth the risks. The dream would make him whole. Every day, that struggle grew harder.
