Moonbane

The Moon had changed; but the Earth, at least from space, had not. It was a beautiful ball, loudly advertising life in the bright blue of its oceans, the swirling white of its water-rich clouds, the soft, edge-on luminescence of its lush oxygen atmosphere. It radiated life, beaconed like an oasis in the surrounding dead darkness of space. I knew now why the men who had seen it this way had been changed by the vision, had become almost evangelical in their descriptions of the preciousness of our planet.

~ * ~

Like the Moon, I too have changed.

The first day, having little else to do, feeling bound by duty, I recorded all that has happened up till now. Most has been composed by moonlight. I don’t know if that has had anything to do with the strangeness I have felt in composing it, and the continuing strangeness I feel. I encounter tearing emotions when I look at the Earth and then at the Moon. I feel the emptiness that will ensue when the Moon is gone. It has been so much of our lives, perhaps. It has been the tides, and lovers’ light, and the beacon to ten thousand fishermen and sailors. It has been something warm in the cold night, a dream held at arm’s length, a promise of other worlds in other places. Until now, when it has become—

What has it become? I look at it now as I write, as Hartnet reads his technical sheets in the chair in front of me, as Wyatt takes remote measurements through the instruments in the open shuttle hold, as our captain curses the lack of his chewing tobacco, and Cowboy acts as engineer, checking and rechecking his lights and computers. I look at Luna through the thick quartz windows, looming, ravaged, reviled, and, always now, growing, becoming our world as blue Earth is left behind. I wonder that we are hating the wrong world for the wrong reasons. What do we know of the wolves? What do we know of their minds? To us they are a superstition come alive, and we have reacted as all men since Cain have reacted to the unknown and different—we have sought to kill what we hate, instead of trying to understand…

~ * ~

Later on the same day. The Moon looms even larger, and Jimmy Rogers, with a dry spit and a mischievous smile, has said that we will arrive in lunar orbit early tomorrow morning. “Heck, we’re gonna do this little job, and land back at Kramer on Christmas Eve,” he stated. “Ain’t that a present from Santa Claus?” There is much preparatory activity and heightened excitement.

I, however, am a little worried. I have looked over the last of what I wrote this morning, and I cannot believe that my pen made those words. I know I have felt rather weak and light-headed since we left Earth, but Hartnet, of all people, told me that it was just aftereffects of my transfusion, combined with the fact that I am probably a victim of space sickness. He himself has not suffered any ill effects since leaving orbit and has begun to enjoy being in his “space truck.” But I am not feeling so fine. My mind has begun to wander.

Feeling sick, I went to the bathroom a little while ago, which in the crowded Lexington provides at least a little privacy. While I was washing my hands in the vacuum sink, I noticed a long black hair curling near my left wrist. When I tried to brush it away, I discovered that it was my own. Stretching it out to its length of two or three inches, I then plucked it.

I examined myself for other such hair, but found none. I thought fleetingly of telling Cowboy about it, but some part of me told me not to say anything. I may talk with him later, when I can think clearly.

Just now, I checked myself over again but found no other hair, so perhaps that is the end of it.

I am tired, and must rest.

~ * ~

Later. The lights in the Lexington have been dimmed, simulating the sleep cycle on Earth. I tried to sleep, but after a short nap, I find myself completely awake and unable to sleep any longer. So I have come to sit in my chair again I find myself gazing raptly at the Moon, which now more than fills a window above me. The blown-out section looks like an ugly reddish brown wound on an otherwise tranquil gray surface. It looks not forbidding at all, but peaceful. I have never felt so drawn to it.

I have been writing for a few minutes and have been staring over my right hand at the paper, and only now have I noticed that the ridge over my knuckles is spotted with long, curling brown hairs. I counted seven, and as I pulled the sleeve of my jumpsuit up I saw that my forearm, too, is clustered with them. In some areas they are matted together and seem to be growing as I watch.

I have been feeling very light-headed. In my sleep restraint, I found myself thinking of my son, Richie. Only I saw him in his wolf form, and he didn’t look strange to me. He looked like my son. I find I cannot think of him any other way. And now, as I sit here alternately writing and staring at the coming Moon and looking around at my fellow passengers, I have a strong urge to rise from my chair and scrape my nails across their throats.

I am no fool. I know what is happening to me. Apparently, the good doctor was not successful in eradicating the wolf from my blood. In my case, I have changed very slowly, and not at all unpleasantly. I find that I can very easily accept who I am.

I am looking at my right hand, watching it curl into a beautiful, elongated shape. A soft brown fur has filled in all around it, and my fingernails are pushing slowly out into a new and finer and more useful shape. I will have a little difficulty writing with these long ivory claws, but I will manage, because I want to record all of this.

The wolves are not a barbarian race.

I see with new eyes.

There is something I must do now.

~ * ~

An hour later. I write more slowly, but my thoughts are very bright and lucid. The oxygen in the Lexington tastes wonderful. I feel very strong.

Let me describe what happened.

After putting down my pen, I carefully went from sleep restraint to sleep restraint, quietly binding each of the crew in with the elastic bands that are stored all over the vehicle for securing material to the walls and floors.

Captain Rogers was last. He was not in a sleep restraint but was half dozing up front in his command chair. He heard me approach. When he turned sleepily he began to smile until he stared into my face. Then his eyes widened, and he cursed.

I lashed out at him with my right arm. My claws cut him cleanly across the throat. As he floated back, crying out, I threw myself upon him.

A wonderful, almost spiritual, experience ensued as I tore and devoured his body. For a while, I was not myself. It was as if an entire race of beings worked through me, ages and ages of genes twining into my limbs, seeing through my eyes, singing the song of blood with me. While my flesh feasted, my mind feasted also. I was one with my race. I experienced a kind of joy, a completeness, I have never known. What had once seemed alien seemed whole and right and sacred. I understand  everything about my race, now. Mankind seems alien to me.

I sought to stack Rogers’s bones, as the Song of Blood requires, but zero gravity prevented me, holding them in a floating, amorphous mass behind the captain’s chair. The cabin of the shuttle became suffused with tiny portions of tissue and droplets of blood, which I spent some time cleaning up.

Naturally, my activity woke the others. As soon as I was finished with Rogers, I attended to them. I moved from Hartnet to Wyatt, cutting them gently on the arm. I must admit that the sight of blood once again inflamed me, but I fought it off, because there is a higher reason to preserve these two. Without them, I cannot do what I seek to do.

As I stood before Cowboy, my new eyes found the Moon through the windows. I threw back my head and howled. I was filled with joy and strength of purpose.

But so was Cowboy. He had cut his sleep restraint with a knife and pushed his way out. I saw in his face that admirable courage and hatred for the enemy he had shown since I had met him. He floated away, shouting at me to stay away, searching desperately for something to fight me with.

In their restraints, Hartnet and Wyatt screamed and thrashed.

“Damnit!” Cowboy cursed. He had backed into Rogers’s chair, scattering the captain’s bones. This infuriated me. But I did not rush at him, as I wanted to. Pettis was a formidable opponent, the only one who could stop me.

“Jesus damn.” He was not directing this invective at anyone in particular. He was railing at fate, I suppose, or God, or the cosmos, or any combination of them. I think he knew he was about to lose.

But not without a fight. He angled away from Rogers’s chair to the copilot’s couch. Moving around behind it,