When they tell you about the moonbase, they mean the top one. The bright one. Silver scaffolding and crinkled foil, flags that flap in no wind. It’s the base for cameras and conferences, interviews with astronauts who have very white teeth.
But below that, there’s another base. A quieter one. And now you’re one of the lucky ones who knows about it.
When they go, they don’t land on the surface. They drop through it, soft as a spoon through custard. There’s a skin they pierce, and then they descend. No ladders. No airlocks. Just gravity and permission. I would try to explain this to you but I barely remember my own journey and besides, you’ll know better than me soon enough.
What I know about the lower base is that it’s older. It breathes. Its walls hum a low E. The rooms rearrange themselves when unobserved. You are never quite where you were. The air smells like warm pennies and honey. The lights do not flicker, but they sometimes wink.
Seven people have been to the base. Five came back. I’m one of them. Then there’s Craig—the guy who walked you through your insurance and 401k. One hasn’t spoken since he returned. Another talks too much, but only in palindromes. The last one grew out her hair and opened a ceramics studio in Vermont. Every bowl she makes hums at the same frequency as the base.
You’ll be okay, though. I believe in you. It takes a few days for your breath to sync with the walls, for your bones to stop reaching for the Earth. Sometimes the base opens a door, and on the other side is a childhood memory—but slightly wrong. Your brother has no eyes. Your mother hums backwards. The floral print wallpaper moves like water. Don’t be afraid. It’s not trying to scare you. It’s just…translating. That’s how I like to think about it. Once you adjust to it all, you’ll be fine.
They'll tell you your mission is data collection. Observation. A short-term residency. It’s not untrue, but the whole truth is that the base called for you specifically. What the base wants, the base gets, no matter how much bureaucracy is involved.
If you’re lucky—or unlucky, depending on how you look at it—the base will speak your true name. Not the one you were given, but the one you’ve been forgetting every day since you arrived on Earth. When it does, you’ll answer. That’s when the training portion ends. That’s when it really begins.
You’ll be okay. Trust me. Just remember: when the lights wink, wink back. It's only polite.
