A (0:00)

Sam. Foreign. Welcome to Escape Pod, your weekly science fiction podcast. I'm your host this week, Tina Connolly, and I am here to bring you Maxson's Mardi Gras Moon race by David DeGraaff. This story first appeared in the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction Fiction and was reprinted in We Are Here Best Queer speculative fiction of 2024. David DeGraff taught physics and astronomy at Alfred University in Alfred, New York. In addition to the usual physics and astronomy classes, he also taught classes on the theory and practice of time travel and the science in Star Trek, Doctor who, Harry Potter, superheroes and supervillains. His fiction has appeared in the Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Lightspeed, and other places. He's online@daviddegraf.com your narrator this week is Brian Lieberman. Brian Lieberman has been many things at the Escape Artist foundation, first finding his footing back in 2007 as a moderator for the newly minted forums. These days he's a solutions engineer, helping to manage some of the backend technologies that help keep the wheels spinning and the strike. And when he's not doing all of that, he's fighting various evils with his friends or cuddling up with his wife and two corgis. Your audio producer this week is Summer Brooks, so get ready to drive the turtles because it's story time.

B (2:22)

Maxson's Mardi Gras Moon race by David DeGrath narrated by Brian Lieberman Turtles were built for short haul lunar prospecting, not treks across the entire face of the Moon. But back in 2043, Joao Silvia Henrique, desperate to celebrate Carnival, drove a turtle from Amundsen Crater at the South Pole and to Bird Crater at the North Pole. Unsanctioned celebrations of any kind were forbidden in the Chinese stations, but there were enough Brazilian workers at the North Pole to make the risk of trekking across unexplored terrain seem worthwhile. Now that Brazil controls Bird Station, it's an annual race, and I'm going to win it if I live. We only have the equipment Joao used on his desperate first run when he stole his turtle no moon suits, no long range radios other than emergency receivers that only work when a rare comms satellite is overhead. Rescue could be too late, like it was in the 52 race. The Hangar lights flashed the race's start. I kiss my fingers, then touch the picture of Bernardino on the dashboard, the one from last year's Carnival, before slowly pressing my foot on the accelerator, hanging back as 50 racers flow from the airlock and stay in a tight peloton along the road to Amundsen Crater's wall, the sun low on the horizon, shining on less than half our power films. I don't start at the front with all the elite racers, children of the founders of the lunar corporations. With someone to sponsor them. They get to spend weeks training on untracked regolith, fine tuning waste and oxygen recyclers, refreshing the solar voltaic film over the cockpit bubble. They talk about needing to get used to the claustrophobia. Me, I'm used to it. This bubble is bigger than the room I share with Bernardino in the miner's dome. I want to be at the back so no one follows me. Trekking alone across unexplored terrain is the only hope I have to win against my better funded competitors. It also increases my chance of dying. Half the people who try new routes need rescue. Some even have rescue reach them in time. None has placed in the top half of finish times. Race radio squawks when the last straggler is at the top. All clear. See you in 10,000 kilometers. Godspeed, Rooster. Tales of regolith kick up around me, people gunning motors to get ahead of the pack. But I keep a steady speed. Being in front this early isn't an advantage. I'm heading further west to my secret approach to the North Pole, one I found on an old orbital photo. Untrucked routes are risky, but I've spent a lot of time on the surface racing to get my ice haul to the station so I can head back for more. Colorful dots move across the crater floor below me as I ride along the next crater's rim while the others take the well worn route down its slumped wall. The line of sight radio cracks to life. Who's on the ridge? That's Da Cruz, who won three of the last five races, son of the founder of Fazenda Greenhouses. I stay silent. Dull red turtle that hasn't seen a paint job in five years. Max in Coelho. That's Lopez, scion of the Palo Mining Group. When Da Cruz doesn't win, Lopez does. He came in 33rd last year. Hey, I finished ahead of four people in a year with no fatalities. And my navigation skills got me a 20% raise when I left Paolo Mining. That kind of doesn't win for me. What's he playing at? That's Zere Almeida, the top woman racer who swears she's going to win this year. The peloton drops out of sight, out of contact as I turn onto the Altiplano, heading to the 45 degree meridian. The half illuminated third quarter. Earth hangs over the horizon. It's early evening in Japan. No, that's New Zealand. Earth is upside down from the way I usually see it. I'm taking a path no one has tried before. A path that doesn't look like it could work. But what I'm doing is closer to Joao's spirit than any other racer in the last 10 years. I can't afford to push my batteries to the point where they're useless by the time I reach the finish line. I'll still need to use my turtle to mine the ice in the permanent shadows at the North Pole. I loosen my grip on the steering wheel and wiggle my fingers to get the blood circulating. It's exhausting work, looking for the shortest routes around the small craters. Trying not to think about any cracks in the cockpit seals, not to think about failing oxygen recyclers or a crack in the still that treats my waste. Not to think of all the ways to die out here. The loneliness of this route is an added factor I hadn't considered. There's no chatter on the radio to keep my mind from wandering too far. I keep remembering the turtles of those who've died over the years. Turtles. Wheels up at the bottom of a crater. Tracks disappearing into a dark hole on the slope of a rill. Bubbles popped open. Rather than facing the slow, painful death of CO2 poisoning, left as a monument to the harsh lunar landscape. The timer dings. 10 hours. I cut the power to the wheels and roll another 30 meters before I stop. It's tempting to eat the fejuala mre, but that's a special meal for my last sleep. Or maybe when it's clear I'll actually win. For now it's either pao de quejijo or generic protein bars for when I don't want to spend as much time eating. When I sleep, I dream of a smooth road over the lunar surface, paved in green glass. When I wake, I check the latest race positions. I'm in second to last place. Everyone else is strung along the traditional well traversed route. Names I don't recognize are far ahead. They'll eventually make a mistake in their exhausted state. Or they'll be passed when they oversleep. Or they'll die. Wait. Not everyone is taking the standard route. There's someone 5km behind me, just over the horizon. Lopez. He should be in the peloton with d', Cruz, Almeida and the others. The regolith is packed hard here, not churned over like it is near home, I adjust a degree east of my best heading, hoping to throw him off my true destination. After my next sleep, Lopez is still 4.8 kilometers behind me, just over the horizon. Now I wish I had something to obscure my tracks. I use the turtle grapple arm to draw a rabbit and a wolf in the regolith and write, you can't catch me. It looks nothing like riding in the wet sand in Rio. The regolith compacts without raised ridges along the edge of the grooves trace a line dodging the tiny crater in front of the rabbit. Hour after hour, day after day, Lopez dogs me. Even matching my sleep cycle. The Earth creeps higher in the sky as the crescent wanes and he's still 5km behind, still just over my horizon. I try not to let it bother me. Try not to let the uneasiness in my stomach keep me from driving my top speed. Try not to look at the race updates. Try not to worry. He'll win. I have to navigate around a small rill. It might be a 10 kilometer diversion instead of 100 meters across, but I don't trust the slopes. That's how huang died in 63. Rills mean lava tubes and open pits, ground that could collapse under a turtle's weight. The north end of the rill terminates in circular shadow, a cave entrance. My next rest stop is southwest of Kepler, the sun directly overhead. I lie down, cover the sun with my hand, and search for the new Earth, its night side. Facing us, I can see the white lights of Florida and Brazil. Rio shines green flashes and streaks from the Antarctic Peninsula up the length of Chile. Another flash. Soon half the Earth is bathed in shimmering red and green. Even the lights of Porto Alegre are covered. Aurora, a solar storm hitting Earth and me. If I can see the solar storm attacking Earth's atmosphere, those high energy protons and electrons are raining down on me too, ionizing the atoms in my body, ripping me apart on a molecular level. Radiation is an ugly way to die. I pull up the MIC in case anyone is in range. Warning. Warning. Auroral activity on Earth. Find shade. Training kicks in. Head to a shadow, a cliff base where you block the sun, and 30 degrees to its right. But we are all in the mare, the smoothest plains on the moon. Where can I hide? Where can anyone hide? The lava tube. What's that two, three kilometers behind me? I gun the turtle and spin a sharp 180, using all the solar power and battery reserve to follow my track south. Can anyone receive me? The electron storm blocks the radio signals. Lopez won't hear me even if he's in range. Does he know how much danger he's in? Lopez is probably another 3km before the rill. If he's staying out of sight. Can I risk this much exposure? I don't know, but I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try. Lopez, can you read me? Silence. I see him up ahead. No dust arcing behind. His turtle stopped Lopez. No response. He's sleeping in his recliner seat. I nudge my turtle forward and bump him. He lurches, looks around, eyes wide. When he sees me, I point up, then reverse and spin, hoping he'll follow. This time. I gun down the slope, sliding as the regolith shifts under my wheels. The ground slopes into a cave mouth barely wide enough for the turtle. I drive in 10 meters. Where the lava tube ends, my headlamps shine on rocks no human has ever seen. Lopez's beams shine through my cockpit, and I can see my shadow on the rough wall in front of me. Thanks, Maxson, lopez says over the radio. You didn't have to rescue me. I make a broad shrug. If the tables were turned, you'd have done the same thing. I lie. Sure, he says after a long pause. Then you're raising it. Man. I don't know how you can keep up this schedule. Four hours of sleep a day is brutal. I mean, we're in the lead for now, but we always go the last 48 hours without rest. The people trying to win do. I don't think you can do that. You underestimate me, Lopez. No, I looked up your last two races. You kept this same rigid schedule the whole time. I won't play Lopez's mind games. Why are you following me, then? You looked like someone with a secret. Like you scouted out a faster route. A route no one else would take your path through. Lacus Excellentiae was a good find. You must have another excellent trick to get past the cliffs of Sinus Iridum. I've got him. He thinks I'm heading east of the Jura Peninsula. Is that the game you're playing? My body clenches despite my elation. It's not a game for me the way it is for you rich assholes. I need the prize money. I need to leverage my navigation skills into higher wages. I grip my jaw when he laughs. If we were in a room together, I'd punch his face. I've spent quite a bit more money training than I'll win. The race is supposed to be about honor, not financial gain. That's easy for you to say. Your family paid for your transport here. I might be able to pay off my fee before I die. I could feel a lecture coming about working harder, how the best people can rise above their birth. But three words into his rant, emergency tones screamed through his radio, but not mine. I must be too deep to pick up the signal. What are they saying? I ask. Everyone who can get to shade in 10 minutes will be okay. Long term effects will start to accumulate. Beyond that fatal in 90 minutes and the storm will last another five hours. Time to catch up on sleep. He clicks off his headlights. Five hours. I set the alarm for four and hope the storm is shorter than predicted. Hope no one tries to ride through it. Why is it so dark? The storm I'm in a lava tube with Lopez, but Lopez is gone and a boulder blocks my escape. I should never have trusted that son of a mother. My front grapple would get the boulder out of the way, but the tube isn't wide enough to turn around, so I nudge it with my rear bumper and spike the motor in reverse. The rock moves a couple centimeters. I spike the motor again and the boulder begins to slide. One more push and it slides farther, but the battery's temperature rises into the danger zone. It will cool off quicker in the cave's cold darkness than in the bright sunlight, but still slower than with an atmosphere. I waste a half hour waiting for the motor to cool. That monkey comber forced me to lose another hour pushing the rock far enough to escape and I'm down to 30% power. I'll need to move a little slower than I'd like, so I'll be fully charged when I reach my secret. If I run out of power there, will anyone ever find me? Would they even bother looking for someone like me? Lopez left a message in his tracks. I can see where he harvested the big boulder and pushed it into place. Much easier going forward and downhill. But he also moved four smaller rocks like he thought about wedging them in, locking the boulder in the lava tube's mouth. One plume from a hopper and all trace of me would be gone, my body never to be found. So noble of him. I want to take off, follow his tracks and smash his bubble with my grapple. No, my best revenge will be to win the race, although that won't be as sweet as plucking his body from the turtle and sweeping the regolith with his face. I'm here to win. Earth is all city lights with no green flashes. Lopez lied about the storm's Duration. Why did I ever believe him? Never again. A thousand kilometers to go. If we had a hopper, five days navigating across the surface. And a turtle. Well, it would be five days. If I had to worm my way around all the craters and debris. I can travel my path in four days. I won't just win by a little. I'll beat everyone by 18 hours. If I've done the calculations right. Lopez is heading to Sinus Iridum, where the Jura Mountains will trap him. He won't pay any more attention to me. So I turn a little west to go on the other side of the peninsula and reach Sinus Roris, where I do have a trick to make it through the mountains. The cliffs of Sinis Roris are notoriously tall and rugged. I see their bright peaks pop over the horizon, brighter than the mare's dark regolith, and stop when I see the cliffs base. It's time for my last sleep before I find the tunnel entrance and take the fast lane to Bird Crater and victory. I sneak a look at the positions as I eat my pao de caijo. Will I still win? I'm even with Zeze ahead of the main peloton, which has pulled ahead of d'. Cruz. I hope he's okay. Lopez has switched course, heading toward me, but there's no way he can catch up now. He might think he can, but while he skirts around boulders and craters, I'll be making solid time. I sleep restlessly, but I feel good after a heavily caffeinated protein bar. My next meal will be my celebratory feijoada. Craters deeper than my turtle are everywhere as I approach the bay, but not as bad as the highlands. As I round one final crater, I come to the base of sheer cliffs on the banks of Roris. I don't see my path. Nothing but sheer cliffs. The old photo I found had the sun overhead, not leaving shadows pointed west. If I have to waste time looking for a small cave, I'll be lost. There's a hill to let me see a little farther, so I run up it. Ah, there. Tracks. At least 20 years old. If this was really an American project, there's no record of this construction anywhere. And no reason for this tunnel to exist. Why did they build such a thing and abandon it? Were they planning a base away from the Pole, away from the easy access to ice? A railgun to send their ice to orbit? A weapon for revenge against the Chinese after they desecrated the Apollo landing sites? I don't know, but the road is Long and smooth and straight. They leveled hills, filled in craters, and dug tunnels. It will be easier than driving the Roda Villas, my speed limited only by how quickly the battery can shed heat. As I approach the circular mouth, I see tire tracks narrower than standard Americans, with their strange units of thumbs and feet instead of meters. Ah. The tracks lead to small exhaust craters. This was a hopper launch zone, but with no infrastructure, so it could remain hidden. D' Cruz still hasn't moved. I really hope this is a tunnel and not just a deep mine. But when I extrapolated a straight line from here to the highlands, I. I saw a hint of another cave with a narrow track heading toward it. I told Bernardino that I'd found a tunnel, but I didn't tell him. I was only 80% sure that's what it was. If I'm going to die, this is where it'll be. But I won't die. I'm going to win. The tunnel angles up and my headlamps shine on the smooth floor, unmarked by tire tracks or any trace of who dug this tunnel or why. I would have expected Americans to leave much trash behind, many useful resources. But the whole area is empty. Before the race, I calculated how fast I can go, balancing speed, distance, engine temperature. But I don't know how much my battery's capacity deteriorated in the lava tube when they started to overheat. The tunnel is straight and smooth, and I don't need to think about the best path around craters and boulders. The turtle says power use is low, but still in the range I'd calculated. I'd given myself a 25% margin of error, so I kicked my speed up a little. After two hours, the line of sight radio cracks. Lopez has gained on me faster than I expected him to. I see you up there, you little rabbit. You still won't win this race. I reach for the mic, but stop. I won't rise to his bait again. He mercifully stays quiet for a little while. I'm gaining on you, Coelho. Or he's increasing his headlamp brightness to fool me. I push on, ignoring his taunts. After an hour, I can see a tiny light ahead. The end of the tunnel. If it weren't for Lopez, I'd be able to compare both ends, judge my remaining time better. But I think I've got five hours to go and my batteries are above 50%. I push faster. My mind stays engaged when I'm navigating the surface, always scanning ahead for the smoothest routes. Here, the floor and the curved walls merge around me, forming a tube, smooth and monotonous. But I have to steer straight so I can't let my mind wander too far. Can't let myself imagine the victory. Imagine Bernardino's embrace when I finally return to him. If I scrape the side of the tunnel at this speed, my canopy could crack and I'll be dead. My battery drops below 30%. If I run into a boulder or a pit and can't move forward, I won't be able to make it to the tunnel's end and I'll die here. Slowly the light grows and it clearly has the same shape as the walls around me. It is truly a path out. I only need to worry about a cave in, but beneath the floor. What the hell is that? I resist the urge to slow. Did you see the cave, Coelho? The walls look like quality ore, but the Americans found a motherlode and refined it in secret. Lopez can swallow frogs. The Americans wouldn't have abandoned the moon if they had all that. But the walls do look mineral rich. I drive faster, so the batteries will be pushing empty by the time I emerge in the sunshine. His lights fade as I pull ahead. How dumb does he think I am? Don't tell anyone about what we found, Lopez says. I'll hire you at five times what you're making now to help us extract this material. I shut off the radio for four more hours until I'm back in the sunshine. There are signs of another hopper landing zone, but there's no equipment on this side either. I see tracks where they must have carted off the tailings from the tunnel to make the road less conspicuous and. But no abandoned hardware. The road leading away is narrow, too narrow to be noticed on orbital maps, but it's packed tight and smooth. Not as smooth as green glass, but I won't leave tracks for Lopez to follow. I only have a two hour lead. I can't take time to sleep for the rest of the race. I should have eaten the ferra yesterday. The batteries aren't charging as fast as they should. Did my panels get covered in dust or are my batteries failing? I set the display to update every 90 minutes to make sure I stay ahead of Lopez. I'm going to beat the lead group by almost a day. The road skirts around a few hundred meter wide craters and it switchbacks into and out of Pascal crater, but it still drastically cuts the total distance. The next update. Lopez is gaining on me and soon I can see his lights. I'm not so sure of myself now. I'm burning more power than the sun can give me, and my batteries are draining faster than I expected. I'll cross the line 27 hours before Zeze and the rest of the main pack. But what if I'm in second place? Second place purse won't cover the cost of a new battery pack. I push the motors as hard as I can, but my speed starts to drop. Is my lead good enough in an hour? The beacon light flashes on. I'm in radio range. This is Maxson Coelho approaching the finish line, a full day ahead of the previous record. Maxson, if you can stay ahead of Lopez. I can see the hangar. I can see the yellow ribbon strung across the opening. I can see a tail of regolith flying behind Lopez's turtle. And it's getting bigger. I push harder on the accelerator but no speed comes. He rips past me and dust crackles on my roof. He breaks the yellow ribbon and passes the rainbow leafed palm trees and colorful parrots. People inside the second story observation deck raise their hands and jump. Bernardino is there, looking down, his forehead resting on the glass. I pull past bikini clad mannequins whose silver masks and sparkling bodies mock my loss. I've lost the race. I've lost my turtle. I'll probably lose Bernadino, too. I gambled everything and lost. The airlock hisses at me, but I don't pop the turtle's seal until I see Bernadino. He wraps me in a tight, loving embrace. You're alive, Maxson. You're alive. He steps away and waves his hand in front of his nose. But first you need a shower. I nod and turn to go, but my eye catches the wall next to the window overlooking the docking bay showing all the positions. One red dot sits in the center of Ibrahim. Basim d' Cruz hasn't moved in three days. He thought the storm would blow over before it became lethal. Bernardino says the rescue jumper said he popped his hatch rather than deal with all the organ failure. Another monument I hope to cruise, turn south to face earth for all eternity. A short man with a fringe of gray hair approaches me, hand extended. Lucas Salares, top boss of Peripo Mining. Congratulations, Mr. Coelho. Technically he's my boss, but so far up I've never seen him in person. I shake his hand and introduce him to my husband. I don't know if you noticed, but I wasn't the guy who crossed the line first. He waves a hand dismissively. When your signal disappeared, I looked over your route. Your route, Maxson. Yours. Once I knew it was there I could see the tunnel and the road you took. That was surprisingly brilliant. I shrug. We could use someone like you in our company. In our offices, I mean. No more endless days cramped in that turtle with your eye. I bet you could help us become the largest mining operation on the moon. Bernadino bounces a foot off the floor. We need Class two living quarters. Solares laughs. Class four is still a step up from the miner's dome. We might get you into Class three if you're even better than I think. Your pay will depend on what you find, of course, and if you don't bring it in fast enough, you're back to the Turtles. I hold out my hand. Get hoppers to both ends of that tunnel quickly, before Lopez sees you talking to me. SARS looks me in the eyes for several seconds, nods, and walks off. Bernardino grabs me in another hug, then pushes me away. Let's get you in a shower and then we can celebrate properly. I may have not won the race, but this is going to be the best Carnaval ever.