“Daddy, won’t you be home for Christmas tomorrow?”

Brock Kirkman sagged in his chair—as much as one could sag under the Moon’s one-sixth gravity. He sniffed sharply, reminded of the plasticky atmosphere within their dome. America’s Plymouth Base, built near a prominent rock on the shore of Shackleton Crater, bore little resemblance to the pilgrims’ landing spot in the New World. No water, no fertile soil. Only buried ice and gritty regolith that wormed its way into everything. And at least those intrepid souls had had their families with them.

“Answer me, Daddy.”

Lucia’s little brows scrunched together like warring caterpillars. Nothing would appease her. What could he promise? A bucketful of Moon rocks in her stocking next year?

“You see, sugarbug—”

“You’d better say something.” Her grumbling wouldn’t wait for the two-second comm delay. “Or I’ll tell Mom I’m…I’m never eating bean greens again. Never, ever…amen!” Lucia folded chubby, brown arms, her full cheeks sucked in just so. She’d filled out nicely since her adoption from Nigeria three years ago, when her skin had draped over her bones like a threadbare blanket. She was a good eater.

And an even better negotiator.

He could learn something from her. Especially given the tension with the Russians and the Chinese that threatened to boil over like exposed fluid in a vacuum.

Now, as Lucia’s eyes bored into him like an ice excavator, Brock had zero leverage. Lord, give me something to say—

The dome shook. Her image exploded into a fierce blizzard of static.

“What the—” Brock’s gaze snapped to the bone-white insulation pads strapped to the ceiling. A gray cloud of that pervasive Moon dust drifted down like a phantom. If the Ghost of Christmas Past paid him a visit tonight, he’d hardly be surprised. There was something about spending months on a lifeless world that tended to raise the dead—at least in his nagging dreams.

Jesse would’ve been nine next week.

“Lucia sweetie…can you still hear me?” No reply. The monitor continued its angry flickering.

Brock ripped off the headset and stood so quickly his momentum carried him off his feet. He punched a dusty pad overhead, the recoil sending him back onto the unforgiving concrete floor.

“Everything okay, Captain?” Charmaine poked her chocolate face through the hatch, her braids as tight as his gut. Captain was his callsign, not his rank, a callback to a classic sci-fi series from a century ago.

But Brock “Captain” Kirkman felt little like a daring starship commander. Not since the first incident.

He’d blown it. Let the Russians get away with their shenanigans. And where had that led them? Into the sights of the Chinese. They didn’t do “Midwest nice.” And this farmboy-turned-flyboy had become the laughingstock of the international compound. Even his American subordinates gave him the stink-eye.

Except Charmaine, thank God. She’d disarm the mockers for him. Either with her wide smile or with that purse of lips and narrow glare borne of a childhood in the Chicagoland Renewal Projects. Her knuckles bore the scars.

“Sorry, Char.” Brock brushed off his navy-blue jumpsuit and thumbed at the screen. “Lost signal.”

Charmaine stepped into the room with those loping strides common to Moon-livers. If her sleek physique spoke of her strength, the depth in her intelligent eyes said something else. “Lucia?”

Brock’s sigh billowed with condensation. “Yeah—is the heat out again?”

She jabbed upward. “They smothered our sunflowers.” The solar-panel arrays, elevated on stalks like plants, were essential for power production. Throwing dirt was childish…but effective. “Also struck our antennas with a boulder. Pretty impressive shot, to be honest—”

“Who did it?” Brock closed the distance, jaw tightening.

Charmaine raised palms. “We can clear the panels, re-align antennas—”

“Who!”

She cleared her throat. “Both.”

He swore. “They’re colluding against us now? Great.” And it’s my fault. “Serves me right for playing the nice guy.”

Charmaine rested a long arm atop his shoulder. “Restraint takes more strength than revenge. It’s one reason I respect you.”

Brock shook his head, gazing at the ceiling. Only a little dirt and a thin aluminum bubble separated him from death. From never coming home. Ever. “Says the woman with titanium fists.” His lips pressed into a thin grin. She always found a way to center him, as if God knew he’d need someone closer than a quarter million miles away to remind him of his core.

She smirked. “Don’t you think those dang red shirts need a better end than dying in a shoot-out?” It was a clever joke: equating the Russians and Chinese with those expendable, red-shirted security men from Star Trek. The American contingent had ample smarts and equipment to put down these brutish bullies for good—if they wanted to duke it out.

Hadn’t he hacked a drone tractor to carve out “MARRY ME” in a cornfield? Surely he could reconfigure a moon-dozer to dig moats around his tormentors’ habitats. Maybe spell out a few choice words.

Or could there be another way?

Rubbing his stubble, Brock took mental inventory of the Plymouth. It seemed God was taking inventory of his heart. “What they need is my boot in their rear end. But the Moon Initiative Board might not consider that an accident.” He made air quotes.

Charmaine shrugged, a twinkle in her eye. “Their inferior excavators sure malfunction a lot. Throwing regolith, rocks—”

“Dehydrated pellets from their porta-potties…”

They chuckled. Brock rubbed bleary eyes. He hated this so-called festive season; he despised conflict even more. Hadn’t the Christ-child arrived with humility? Yes, but He’d grown into a bold man. One who didn’t shy away from confrontation. How would He play this? OK, maybe that was too high a standard. How would Captain James T. Kirk respond?

Duh. He’d play his gut. And maybe listen to his friend Spock.

A little.

“Wanna help?” Brock cocked his head at Charmaine.

She raised a very Spock-like brow. “You’ve gotta ask?”

They stepped out so quickly that they practically floated down the hall.

---

The spoils of their hour-long scavenger hunt included the tripod stand from a decommissioned seismic sensor, a kinked corkscrew antenna, three long bristle brushes, and a smattering of scrap aluminum piled within the moon-buggy garage. Charmaine also snagged a roll of gold-foil tape.

After dispatching a message to the Russians and Chinese, Brock and Charmaine kludged together their project and donned suits.

They depressurized the garage. Eased their buggy outside. The terminator between sunlight and utter blackness sliced right across the open area between the three nations’ domes. If not for the perimeter lights around the habitats, the Russian and Chinese zones would be as dark as a graveyard.

The buggy jostled across a bundle of electrical cables that should have been feeding solar power to the Plymouth’s batteries. For his part, Brock tried to tame the anxious neurons firing their warning: Turn around!

“You’ve got this, Captain.” Charmaine’s tone steeled him. “And I’ve got your back.”

Brock’s nod didn’t translate to his oversized helmet. His entire spacesuit seemed too big—or did he just feel too small? The crisscrossing vehicle tracks in the gray dirt mirrored his uncertainty. But he couldn’t stop now. The glaring headlights from his counterparts’ buggies scrutinized him like predatory eyes scanning for any weakness.

Inhaling deeply, Brock parked the buggy opposite theirs and dismounted. With Char alongside, he advanced, the Sun disappearing behind the Chinese dome’s hump. After switching to a common channel, he raised his gold visor. The gesture resembled a salute.

“Thanks for coming.” The words fractured in his dry throat. “And thanks for your latest accident.” Brock indicated the American antennas, studying the four stoic faces of the Russian and Chinese commanders and their plus-ones. “You bought me time to think of an answer.” That earned him a quizzical look from Commander Yang.

Brock continued. “I’ve got a daughter, see? Lucia. She’s five going on twenty. A sweetheart…with a stubborn streak. You might say she’s sweet and sour.” Yang’s eyes betrayed no reaction to the feeble humor. “I owe her a reason for being away. Especially now.” His sigh briefly fogged his faceplate. “Look, I’m no fan of Christmas—”

“Which you celebrate on wrong day,” the Russian leader, Leonov, said gruffly.

Brock balled fists. Relaxed them. Don’t take the bait.

He stepped closer to the Russian, drawing a protective countermove from the man’s comrade. Leonov waved him back—yet the set of his boots suggested a fighting stance.

“Is there ever a right day for grief?” Brock let the question hang, pivoting toward the Chinese duo. “Don’t you remember exactly where you were when you lost Hao and Lin on re-entry?” He returned his stare to the Russians. “Or when Antonov suffocated on bad air during his EVA?”

The cosmonauts’ posture slouched.

“I was on Moscow subway,” Leonov said. “Near Mayakovskaya station.”

Yang grunted. “I was in the desert. At Dongfeng. To welcome them home.”

“And I,” Charmaine added, “wept on my kitchen floor when I heard about Cece Davidson.”

Everyone nodded. No matter their flag, the space community loved Cece. She was like a grandmother to the next generation of explorers—one with two PhDs and a sweet tooth.

This is progress. Yet Brock had to burrow deeper beneath the crust. So he studied the pitch-black sky and summoned courage from Orion’s belt.

“I barely cried when we lost Jesse. I had a wife to comfort, a job to do. Until that day I lingered in the baby room. We’d spent months preparing, dreaming…” Brock’s voice thickened. “It’s like this place, y’know?” He swept his arm across the stark plain. “Hopes and dreams. Thinking about a legacy. Those who’ll outlive us. Those who should—” His eyes flooded. “—outlive us.”

Unable to wipe his tears, Brock blinked hard. Blew out a breath. “So today I’m making it official.” Charmaine took the cue; retrieved their creation from the buggy. Every eye lit up in recognition. “We’re planting the first tree on the Moon. Not a Christmas tree exactly. Call it a Tree of Remembrance. And I’m hanging the first ornament.”

As Charmaine anchored the tripod of their treelike sculpture and wrapped it with gold-foil tinsel, Brock unpocketed a worn photo. The ultrasound had been taken at thirteen weeks. Brock smiled at the blurry image of little Jesse sucking his thumb. What was he doing now?

“See you in heaven, my son.” Brock tapped the photo to his visor before securing it within the bristles of a scavenged brush-branch.

Turning, he startled. Everyone had converged at his heels. Their gloves touched his sleeves.

“We—” Leonov began, his gray eyes misty.

“—are truly sorry.” Yang nodded gravely. “For everything.”

“Da.” Leonov indicated the spindly monument. “And this is Tree of Jesse—”

“But it’s for everyone,” Brock said.

Leonov offered a rare smile. “Don’t you know Tree of Jesse? Family tree…for baby Khristos. Isn’t He for everyone?”

Brock eyed Commander Yang. “Are you okay with—”

“Tree of Jesse.” Yang hmphed. “I like it. I’ll add grandfather to that branch.”

Even as he pointed, Leonov spoke again. “We’ll bring more branches, okay? This tree must grow. A tree to celebrate life.” Murmured assent. “And one more thing, Commander Kirkman.”

“Yes?” Brock felt as if he’d float off the surface.

“You need a star up top. A red one, maybe?” Leonov smirked.

“We’ve got that covered,” Charmaine said. “Ready, Captain?”

He produced a folded printout of Lucia’s latest artwork. Above a stick figure labeled Daddy hung a beautifully imperfect five-pointed star. The group hummed their approval.

“Now give me a boost,” Brock said.

“Wait.” Yang motioned to his colleague. “Video it. To send to his daughter.”

And so they did.

Later that Christmas Eve, Lucia watched open-mouthed as a team of astronauts helped her Daddy plant her star atop the Tree of Jesse. Then she clapped with a smile as wide as a full moon.

Brock chose to believe Jesse did, too.