The Mammoth Space Station aka The Bunker

The IPD conference room was lined with flags from around the world. Representatives from every major nation sat along a long, polished table, scribbling notes, their faces a mix of exhaustion and forced professionalism. At the front, a stack of thick folders sat untouched.

General Henson stood before them, clicking through a PowerPoint presentation. He was tall, built like a tank, with a V-like scar cutting through his cheek. The General was a top ranking official from the United States Space Force. All the other branches were so busy that the Space Force was the only branch that could absorb and control the American branch of the IPD.

In the back, Tucker slouched in his chair, rocking slightly, fighting a yawn. His pen barely touched his notes. He was too busy doodling on the margins. He couldn’t care less about most of these meetings. He was under 18 and so he was classified as a junior scientist.

Technically he was an intern. This meant anything he said held no weight. He just goes to the field and does whatever tasks they ask. Since his director superior was the only one giving him things to do, he was basically just at this meeting to stay informed. It didn’t make it any less boring.

He had joined up to make a difference. To fight for the cause. Maybe make up for some of the evil in his past. But over the years, he learned just how hopeless the situation was. He didn’t quit, but it changed his perspective from saving the world, to enjoying the little time he had left.

Plus he was about to go on his mandatory vacation. He could hear the beach calling him and couldn’t get the idea of learning how to surf out of his mind. If the world was going to end, he was going to do everything he wanted before it was all over.

He nudged the guy next to him. Sal, an Italian, mid-thirties, sharp-dressed, always looked like he was a few words away from cussing somebody out.

Tucker leaned over. “Hey, Sal.”

Sal barely turned his head.

Tucker held up a drawing he made in his notes. A stick figure balanced on a wavy line.

Sal squinted. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s me,” Tucker said. “Surfing on my time off.”

Sal gave him a blank stare. “You expected me to get that from this? I know two-year-olds who draw better.”

“You hang out with a lot of two-year-olds?”

Sal rolled his eyes. “You know what I—”

“Salvatore!”

Both of them snapped forward.

General Henson was staring straight at them.

Sal stiffened. “Sir?”

“Am I boring you?”

“No, sir!”

“Good. Glad I can continue.” Henson turned back to the room, voice firm. “As I was saying, we are falling behind. People are counting on us to figure this out ASAP. We have exactly 364 days left, people. Before it’s all over. So if you ever needed a time to be motivated, this is it.”

He grabbed the stack of folders and handed them off to his assistants, who passed them around the table.

“Here are your new and possibly final, assignments.”

The folders landed in front of each person. Except Tucker.

Sal flipped his open, frowning. He hesitated, then raised his hand.

“Uh, General?”

Henson didn’t look up. “What is it?”

“There’s gotta be a mistake. I was supposed to go on leave. This has me stationed on the Mammoth Moon Base.”

“Your point?”

“I told my wife I’d be home. It’s happening soon. Can’t this wait two weeks?”

“Salvatore, these assignments are not up for negotiation,” said Henson with a straight face. “You have your orders. You will follow them. Understood?”

Sal’s mouth opened, but no words came. Slowly, he shut it.

Tucker glanced at him, then back down at his stupid little drawing.

Tucker sighed, hard. Rolled his eyes. Then raised his hand. “Uh, General?”

Henson exhaled, already annoyed. “What is it now, Tucker?”

“I’ll take his place.”

The room went silent.

Sal’s head snapped toward him. Henson narrowed his eyes. “Whose place?”

“Sal’s,” Tucker said.

Henson studied him. “You want to trade places with Sal? Go to Mammoth?”

Tucker nodded. “Yeah. I’m trying to save up some money anyway.”

Henson studied him for a moment. Then, he shrugged. “Fine. I don’t care. Report it to Central Command. You’ll be reporting as a Space Force Operative now, understand?”

“Yeah…”

Tucker leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen against the table.

So much for surfing.

***

Tucker and Sal stepped out of the conference room. The folder felt heavier in Tucker’s hands than it should have. He stared at it, thumbing the edge of the cover, already regretting what he’d just done.

Before he could dwell on it, Sal turned and pulled him into a tight embrace.

“Thank you,” Sal said, voice thick.

Tucker nodded. No need to make a thing out of it. He knew why he needed to take this leave. It was for a much more important reason than surfing. If the world was ending, he knew that he couldn’t let Sal be deprived of this moment. This special time.

Sal took a step back, then suddenly did a double take. His expression changed—first surprise, then joy.

Tucker followed his gaze.

Outside, standing near the glass doors, was Sal’s wife. She barely had time to react before Sal rushed toward her and wrapped her in his arms. He kissed her, held her like he hadn’t seen her in years.

Tucker smiled.

She was nine months pregnant.

Drip.

A drop of water hit Tucker’s head. He wiped it away, frowning. The old building they used always had leaks from God knows what from God knows when.

Drip. Drip.

He glanced at his hand, then up at the ceiling.

Drip. Drip.

Another drop landed on his forehead.

He exhaled, shaking his head. Something about it unsettled him.

Drip.

A cold droplet landed on Tucker’s forehead, pulling him out of sleep.

He lay there for a moment, staring at the leak above him. Another drop fell, striking the same spot.

Drip. Drip.

He rolled onto his side, groaning. His pillow was damp. Fantastic.

Sitting up, he stretched, cracking his neck. His breath came out in short, foggy puffs. It was always cold down here.

“Light on,” he muttered.

The dim fluorescents flickered to life, revealing the tiny, windowless room. Gray stone walls. A cheap metal-framed bed with a thin mattress. Across from him was a second bed, just as unimpressive.

A few colorful posters dotted the walls—random video game characters from a life that felt lightyears away.

Tucker pulled his jumpsuit off the hook. Standard issue. Dark blue, an American flag patched on the chest and shoulders. Across the back, a large white globe encircled by a laurel wreath.

“IPD” was stitched in bold letters beneath it.

It had been almost six months since Tucker left Earth for this Mammoth Moon Base. He and the other six members of the team had another, more accurate name for it: The Bunker. The base was crudely built like all government constructions. All efficiency, no class. The team consisted of him, five other junior interns his age from other countries, and the brilliant Dr. Martinez.

He walked out of his room and passed by one of the large bay windows in the corridor. He looked out at the base.

The Mammoth installation was a cluster of domes connected by steel corridors. A communications tower stretched high above the complex, its dish aimed at the distant blue dot of Earth.

Two airlocks stood side by side—one for personnel, one for cargo.

Beyond them, nothing but endless gray dust and the black void of space.

That was it. Space and them. The seven people representing their countries. To make it easy to identify each other from a distance, the IPD gave each country a specific jumpsuit color. It made everything more colorful than needed, but it was a good system.

Tucker, a half White, Half Native American from the USA wearing a blue jumpsuit.

Akira from Japan wearing black.

Dr. Martinez from Mexico wearing green.

Victor from Russia wearing red.

Jack from England wearing white.

Lien from China wearing pink.

Emma from Germany wearing yellow.

It was just them on this rock. Millions of miles from their dying planet, they called home.