Aluminum and oxygen. Rocket fuel, trapped inside the glass structure, melted out of the lunar rock by the light of the Sun.

Mariko consulted notes in a softscreen. “Within this structure the organic chemicals serve many uses. A complex chemical factory appears to be at work here. There is a species of photosynthesis, for instance. There is evidence of some kind of root system, which perhaps provides the organics in the first place… But there is no source we know of. This is the Moon.” She looked confused. “You must remember I am a geologist. My contact works with biochemists and biologists, and they are extremely excited.”

Biologists? “You’d better tell me.”

“Xenia, this is essentially a vapor-phase reduction machine of staggering elegance of execution, mediated by organic chemistry. It must be an artifact. And yet it looks—”

“What?”

“As if it grew, out of the Moon ground. There are many further puzzles,” Mariko said. “For instance, the evidence of a neural network.”

“Are you saying this has some kind of a nervous system?”

Mariko shrugged. “Even if this is some simple lunar plant, why would it need a nervous system? Even, perhaps, a rudimentary awareness?” She studied Xenia. “What is this thing?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“There has been much speculation about the form life would take, here on the Moon. It could be seeded by some meteorite-impact transfer from Earth. But volatile depletion seemed an unbeatable obstacle. Where does it get its organic material? Was it from the root structure, from deep within the Moon? If so, you realize that this is confirmation of my hypotheses about the volatiles in—”

Xenia stopped. “Mariko. This isn’t to go further. News of this… discovery. Not yet. Tell your colleagues that too.”

Mariko looked shocked, as Xenia, with weary certainty, had expected. “You want to suppress this?”

That caused Xenia to hesitate. She had never thought of herself as a person who would suppress anything. But she knew, as all the star travelers had learned, that the universe was full of life: that life emerged everywhere it could — though usually, sadly, with little hope of prospering. Was it really so strange that such a stable, ancient world as the Moon should be found to harbor its own, quiet, still form of life?

Life was trivial, compared to the needs of the project.

“This isn’t science, Mariko. I don’t want anything perturbing Roughneck.”

Mariko made to protest again.

“Read your contract,” Xenia snapped. “You must do what I say.” And she cut the connection.

She returned to bed. Frank seemed to be asleep.

She had a choice to make. Not about the comet deflection issue; others would unravel that, in time. About Frank, and herself.

He fascinated her. He was a man of her own time, with a crude vigor she didn’t find among the Japanese-descended colonists of the Moon. He was the only link she had with home. The only human on the Moon who didn’t speak Japanese to her.

That, as far as she could tell, was all she felt.

In the meantime, she must consider her own morality.

Lying beside him, she made her decision. She wouldn’t betray him. As long as he needed her, she would stand with him.

But she would not save him.

Life was long, slow, unchanging.

Even her thoughts were slow.

In the timeless intervals between the comets, her growth was chthonic, her patience matching that of the rocks themselves. Slowly, slowly, she rebuilt her strength: light traps to start the long process of drawing out fire for the next seeds, leaves to catch the comet Rain that would come again.

She spoke to her children, their subtle scratching carrying to her through the still, cold rock. It was important that she taught them: how to grow, of the comet Rains to come, of the Giver at the beginning of things, the Merging at the end.

Their conversations lasted a million years.

The Rains were spectacular, but infrequent. But when they came, once or twice in every billion years, her pulse accelerated, her metabolism exploding, as she drank in the thin, temporary air and dragged the fire she needed from the rock.

And with each Rain, she birthed again, the seeds exploding from her body and scattering around the Land.

But, after that first time, she was never alone. She could feel, through the rock, the joyous pulsing of her children as they hurled their own seed through the gathering comet air.

Soon there were so many of them that it was as if all of the Land was alive with their birthing, its rocky heart echoing to their joyous shouts.

And still, in the distant future, the Merging awaited them.

As the comets leapt one by one back into the sky, sucking away the air with them, she held that thought to her exhausted body, cradling it.

Eighty days in and Frank was still making hole at his couple-of-kilometers-a-day target pace. But things had started to get a lot harder.

This was mantle, after all. They were suffering rock bursts. The rock was like stretched wire, under so much pressure it exploded when it was exposed. It was a new regime. New techniques were needed.

Costs escalated. The pressure on Frank to shut down was intense.

Many of the investors had already become extremely rich from the potential of the rich ore lodes discovered in the lower crust and upper mantle. There was talk of opening up new, shallow bores elsewhere on the Moon to seek out further lodes. Frank had proved his point. Why go farther, when the Roughneck was already a commercial success?

But metal ore wasn’t Frank’s goal, and he wasn’t about to stop now.

That was when the first death occurred, all of a hundred kilometers below the surface of the Moon.

She found him in his office at New Dallas, pacing back and forth, an Earth man caged on the Moon, his muscles lifting him off the glass floor.

“Omelettes and eggs,” he said. “Omelettes and eggs.”

“That’s a cliché, Frank.”

“It was probably the fucking Grays.”

“There’s no evidence of sabotage.”

He paced. “Look, we’re in the mantle of the Moon—”

“You don’t have to justify it to me,” she said, but he wasn’t listening.

“The mantle,” he said. “You know, I hate it. A thousand kilometers of worthless shit.”

“It was the changeover to the subterrene that caused the disaster. Right?”

He ran a hand over his greasy hair. “If you were a prosecutor, and this was a court, I’d challenge you on ‘caused.’ The accident happened when we switched over to the subterrene, yes.”

They had already gone too deep for the simple alloy casing or the cooled lunar glass Frank had used in the upper levels. To get through the mantle they would use a subterrene, a development of obsolete deep-mining technology. It was a probe that melted its way through the rock and built its own casing behind it: a tube of hard, high-melting-point quasiglass.

Frank started talking, rapidly, about quasiglass. “It’s the stuff the Lunar Japanese use for rocket nozzles. Very high melting point. It’s based on diamond, but it’s a quasicrystal, so the lab boys tell me, halfway between a crystal and a glass. Harder than ordinary crystal because there are no neat planes for cracks and defects to propagate. And it’s a good heat insulator similarly. Besides that, we support the hole against collapse and shear stress with rock bolts, fired through the casing and into the rock beyond. We do everything we can to ensure the integrity of our structure…”

This was, she realized, a first draft of the testimony he would have to give to the investigating commissions.

When the first subterrene started up, it built a casing with a flaw, undetected for a hundred meters. There had been an implosion. They lost the subterrene itself, a kilometer of bore, and a single life, of a senior tool pusher.