Watching and waiting, visitors from the Moon orbit the planet. Their mission: Conquer Earth. Of course, that’s the easy part…

From his command station Captain Rollhagen had, well, a commanding view. He sat fingering the navigation stick. A bubble revealed stars and black space, with the Earth rotating below.

“Left flank alert.” Kenneth Kern’s voice was calm, clear.

“Check,” said Rollhagen. His finger barely moved.

Karen O’Casey, a navigator, spoke from her console. “Collision protocall A-4.”

The navigator’s voice was steady. “Warning, collision ahead.“

“Collision,” she said, voice rising. “A-3… A-2… A-1. Alert. Alert all hands. Brace for collision. A-1, A-1, A-1.

An alarm sounded. Rollhagan’s finger moved a centimeter. A half centimeter. “Check,” he said. Voice never wavering.

“A-2.” said O’Casey. “… A-3… A-4… Flank cleared. All hands. Cancel alert.”

The alarm ceased so abruptly Megan Bremer flinched. She stood with her mentor, Lt. Jennifer Tate. It was her first simulation. As the only crew member from Earth, it was considered a great honor to watch from the bridge.

“What did you think?” Tate said. The women walked through doors and down a hallway. They heard Rollhagan’s voice: Good work, people. Let’s do it again.

“Wow,” Megan said, still breathless.

“My first time I peed a little.”

The admission was testament to Tate’s affection. She would never admit this to another crewmate. Of all virtues, Malthusians hold courage paramount. Emblazoned on their flag is a gold shield and sword. Beneath is a single word, COURAGE.

A few years earlier a freighter returning from Mars took a direct hit from a meteor. A nearly-unheard of accident. Crippled, air seeping away, the captain informed the crew of 823 they had forty-two minutes to live. Then he sent his final report to the Moon before walking to the recreation hall. The crew relaxed, traded jokes. Some wrote home. Others played ping pong.

When engine pressure reached 9.5 psi they were blown to stardust. In solemn acknowledgment Malthusians everywhere had one verdict:

Now there’s a Malthusian.

Megan and Jennifer sat in a break room with cups of pineapple chunks. Both women were still shaken. Neither showed it. Very Malthusian. “What were they simulating?” Megan asked.

“I’m not supposed to say.” Lt. Tate’s bangles clinked against the linoleum table. Women crew wore the same silver jumpsuits as men, but with flared sleeves.

“You haven’t got clearance.”

“Oh, come on. You can tell me.”

Tate’s eyes were a warm brown. She made sure they were not overheard, then leaned close. “Okay, here’s the deal. A week before the invasion they’re launching hundreds of anti-gravity pods. Secret agents will mix with Earthlings. They’re worried about collisions.”

“If a pod hits a ship… Well, you know what happens when anti-gravity meets anti-gravity, don’t you?”

Megan exhaled. “Let’s hope the Captain knows what he’s doing.”

“Oh, he does,” said Lt. Tate. “I have complete confidence in him.”

I’ll bet you do, Megan thought. She knew Jennifer was in love with him. “Say Jen. Just a thought. Do you think I could get on that secret pod mission?”

“Who knows Earth better than me?”

Lt. Tate’s brow knit. She wanted to be helpful. “I don’t know. You have no combat experience.”

“Could you talk to him?”

“Oh, he’d never listen to me.”

Megan left it at that. The women talked movies, sports, clothes. Jennifer was a bit dowdy, in Megan’s opinion. She kept her nails short and wore no mascara or perfume. Her uniform was always zipped to the chin. There could be some improvement there. Especially when working beside her handsome captain. Megan watched as she naively sipped at her cup, eyes as innocent as a dog’s.

The captain had deftly avoided one collision that day. But there are all kinds of collisions, Megan thought. Next time, he may not be so lucky.

Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. Mr. Donnelly’s first book is ‘The Melancholy MBA.’ published by Brick Road Poetry Press.

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