Over the course of the next few hours, Ganymede learned more details about her companions’ hopes in reaching the moon, but it was mostly a confirmation of what she already knew: Arya was following the tenets of her religion that saw the moon as the ultimate goal of life on earth.  Dal-Sun, similarly, seemed to be aiming for transformation into something greater than she was.  Interestingly, Martim didn’t seem to have any plans one way or the other, almost as if ze never actually intended to reach the moon–ze simply wanted a job that suited zis skills and interests.

Ganymede felt that these explanations fell short of the full picture, though.  Everyone at least agreed that the moon represented a gateway into something greater that would come afterwards, but no one had been clear on what that “something greater” actually was.

She knew what she thought it was–an understanding of how to connect to all people in the world–so she was caught off-guard by the fact that no one else had this readily available as an answer for themselves.  Of all the contradicting understandings of the moon in the books she had read, this, at least, had been a consistent element.

“See, you’ve been saying that,” Martim said, “but I haven’t heard any of the scholars on the subject say anything about that before.  Not that I keep up with them or anything.”

“We are certainly all meant to meet all of our loved ones when we finally arrive on the moon,” Arya said, “and that’s part of the eternal happiness promised to us.  But there’s nothing about giving us abilities to connect with each other that we didn’t already have.  Reaching the moon allows us to overcome physical barriers between us, not emotional ones like you seem to be describing.”

“And even that is just the view of some religions,” Martim said.  “There’s not a consensus on that part.  There’s not really a consensus on anything.”

“Don’t the Lunites have an official view on it?” Ganymede asked.

“No, not really,” Martim said.

“The Lunites don’t take any stances on anything that hasn’t been proven,” Dal-Sun said.  “Nicholas represents the organization as a whole, in that way.  Nice and inoffensive, so they can bring in as many people as possible.”

“Okay,” Ganymede said, “but how do you all feel about the idea?  Does it go against what you think will happen when we reach the moon?”

“It doesn’t match the scriptures, so I have no reason to believe it to be true,” Arya said simply.

“It just…” Martim sighed in exasperation.  “It just doesn’t feel realistic to me.  World peace, everyone gathering around and holding paws, what makes you think that’s even possible with the world being the way it is?  With people being the way they are?  Are we supposed to bring together all the people of the world who have killed each other and expect them to be friends?”

“W-well…” Ganymede steadied her breath.  “I know a lot of people have done bad things… but I want to think it was because they didn’t know better.  Because we haven’t figured out how to connect with each other yet.

Martim shook zis head.  “More coddled rich kid upbringing.  You haven’t seen what I’ve seen.  Most people aren’t soft like you.”

“I don’t get why you want to connect to other people so badly, anyway,” Dal-Sun said.  “Weren’t you treated like shit in your hometown?  Even though you were better than all of them?  You don’t need them, Ganymede, you don’t need anyone.”

“Hmph,” Martim huffed.  “Much like you feel like you’re better than us, right?”

“Don’t give me that,” Dal-Sun shot back.  “Maybe I wouldn’t be so sore with you right now if you’d just agreed with me to prioritize the beast from the moon above everything else.”

“Unbelievable.” Martim shook zis head and flexed zis arm.  “You know, you’ve got a lot of mouth for someone half my size.”

“Just try it, lizard.”

“Listen,” Ganymede said, running in between the two of them.  “Um, I know I wasn’t on good terms with everyone back in my hometown.  But I was always doing my best to figure out how to fix that, because… in spite of all that, I still understand that there’s only so much I can do by myself.  I wanted to be on better terms with everyone.  I wanted to understand everything they had to teach me.  I wanted to share things with them, and let them share things with me.  I wanted us to learn from each other.”

“What could they have had to teach you?” Dal-Sun said, waving her paw dismissively.

“I don’t know.  I never figured it out.  But I always wanted to.  I still do.  There were a lot of things they clearly felt very strongly about that I never understood.”

“Like why they hate outsiders?” Dal-Sun grinned.  “You wish you knew how to do that?  Wanted to learn some more slurs before you left home?”

Ganymede bristled.  “That’s something I was always sure they were wrong about.  It goes against the very idea of connecting with everyone.  That was an example of something I wanted to be able to show them, but I never figured out how to do that, either.  I know I could have, if I’d just… stuck with it for a little longer.”

“Just a bit more time in that jail cell,” Dal-Sun said.  “Then everyone would’ve realized you were actually right all along.”

“Dal-Sun’s being an ass, but I agree with them,” Martim said.  “That town was never just gonna stop being racist.  They had their little tribe where they could protect and take care of their own, and there was never gonna be any reason for them to offer any support to anyone else.  They wouldn’t have gained anything from it.”

“But that’s wrong, for all the reasons I just said!” Ganymede said.  “How can you say that after seeing all the places you’ve seen?  After being part of the Lunites, which has the support of people from all sorts of different places from around the world?  There’s so many different things people have to offer, ideas, skills, connections from their own cultures.  I’ve only seen a piece of it and it’s already increased my understanding of the world.  What if we were all working together, with all of our combined knowledge?  Wouldn’t that be equivalent to omniscience?  To omnipotence?  Wouldn’t that be the transformative power of the moon, once it connects us all to each other?”

There was only silence for a few seconds.  Ganymede grew nervous.

“Ganymede,” Martim said, “one thing I’ve learned from all the places I’ve been is that if you open up a group to let everyone in, try to have everyone get along, that group is eventually going to be taken over by fascists.”

Ganymede felt sweat prickling across her face.  “What?”

“It’s a common trick of sorts,” Martim said.  “Everyone’s allowed, and that includes the fascists.  So they come in and start doing what fascists do, which is take control of everything.  Shut other people down.  Throw people out.  They don’t have to respect the ‘everyone’s allowed’ rule because it doesn’t fit their goal.  But if anyone objects to them, then they play the ‘everyone’s allowed’ card to justify why they should be allowed to continue doing what they’re doing.  Eventually, they remove enough other people from the equation that they become the majority, or at least they take the positions of power, and then they can just rewrite the rules to suit their needs.  Then no one’s allowed unless they fit approved thoughts and standards.”  Ze shrugged.  “Sorry to say, it’s probably what happened to your hometown.”

“What if we proved to them that they’re wrong in what they’re doing?” Ganymede asked.

Martim barked out a laugh.  “Kid, they don’t care about logic, they care about power.”

“But bringing everyone together does create power,” Ganymede said.  “That’s what I was just trying to say.  We have the combined power of everyone working together.”

“It really doesn’t,” Dal-Sun said.  “Sure, in theory, the combined efforts of everyone in the world is a lot of manpower.  How are you gonna get everyone to agree on what it is that should be done?  How are you actually gonna direct all that manpower towards any given goal, except through fascism?”

Ganymede was starting to feel fatigued.  “I want to think that, if we were all connected to each other, we’d all want to look out after each other, and we’d work together to figure out how to do that in the most effective ways possible.”

“And what ways are those?”

“I don’t know,” Ganymede said, getting frustrated.  “I don’t think anyone would, until we were all connected.”

“That’s cyclical reasoning, hon.”

“If I may,” Arya suddenly interjected, “I would like to note that our scriptures outline a long set of rules and guidelines that, if followed, would make sure everyone was taken care of.”  She shook her head.  “But our culture is in the minority of believing that those rules should be followed, aren’t they?  And it’s a struggle to get those who do believe in the rules to follow them all of the time.  And then generations will pass, and new people will come in, and ideas will change about how the rules should be followed, or what the rules are.”

“And that describes every religion out there,” Dal-Sun said.

Arya sighed.  “Unfortunately, I can’t say you’re wrong.  I still believe in the truth of the scriptures.  But I recognize that I could not tell anyone else that their beliefs were wrong without being a hypocrite in some way, even if it is a true statement.”

“Hey Ganymede,” Dal-Sun said, “remember how I said that the Lunites have a tendency to take neutral stances on things in order to draw in as many people as possible?” She gave Ganymede a bitter look.  “The same kinds of stances that don’t actually lead to getting anything done?”

“Um,” Ganymede said.  “Yes.”

“I’m not happy with it, but I know what happens when people push against it, because that’s already happened in the past.  The Lunites are ostensibly open to anyone of any religious background, but as you might imagine, not all people feel that the direction of the organization matches their religious beliefs.  And it’s a big organization with a lot of resources at its disposal, so some religious groups have tried to take over the whole thing.  Do you know what happens to ‘em?”

“What?”

“They get stomped on.”  Dal-Sun threw her arms outwards in a half-shrug.  “Nicholas might be about as mobile as a pancake when it comes to progressing towards anything, but if you ever pose a threat to his position, that asshole gets fierce.  And that applies to pretty much anyone in the upper echelons of the organization, even though this is supposed to be a relatively democratic organization as a whole.  And the sad part is, in comparison to other groups, it is.”

Ganymede scratched her cheek.  “What do you mean they get stomped on?”

“Well, I don’t mean it literally… usually.  But they get thrown out.  Sometimes physically, sometimes socially.  Sometimes in public, sometimes in secret.  In the cases where there were enough people involved that they could make a push for power in the first place, there’s also usually enough people involved that they go and try to put together their own organization that does most of the same stuff that the Lunites do, but with the changes that they originally pushed for.  Then, after a few months, those organizations fall apart from in-fighting.”

Ganymede tried to process all of this new information.  She didn’t know how to respond.

“But Ganymede, I feel like you should already understand that this is how things work,” Dal-Sun said.  “Again, didn’t this same stuff happen in your town?  You had your own ideas for a way to improve the town, you got some other people to join you on it, but that group fell apart, and then town leaders threw you in jail for threatening their power.”

“I don’t–” Ganymede said, then stumbled over her words.  “I wasn’t threatening anyone!  I never meant to hurt anyone!  I just… I still don’t even understand why everyone else thought the building was such a big deal!  It shouldn’t have been a big deal!  And I thought at least all of you would understand that!”

“The town had their own way of doing things, and you didn’t go along with it,” Dal-Sun said.  “You went against it, and they had to make an example of you.”

“They were looking after their own,” Martim said.  “They might’ve looked after you for a while, since you were one of their own, but then you brought in people who weren’t, and all of a sudden you didn’t belong, either.”

“I sympathize with you, of course,” Arya said.  “But I sympathize with them, too.  It was a very religious town, from what I understand.  As someone whose culture has lost a hold of their own values, I understand why your town was protective of theirs.”

Ganymede stared at the ground.  Her mind was blank and something inside her head was burning like fire.

“In short, this is why the connection stuff is all bullshit,” Dal-Sun said.  “Sure, keep some friends around to help you with stuff, if they help.  But trying to get everyone to follow along with you is always going to be like herding cat-beasts, at best.  You need focus if you’re ever gonna accomplish anything.”

“Why the FUCK do ANY of you even WANT to go to the moon, then!?”

The others stopped in their tracks to turn and stare at Ganymede.  She had screamed at them before she could even stop herself.  Now that she had, she wasn’t sure what to say or do next.

“Ganymede, you’re the only one who thinks going to the moon means making connections,” Dal-Sun said.  “For the rest of us, we just want the power to change the world.  And no, making connections is not the way to get that power.”

“But why do you want power if it can’t be used for making connections?” Ganymede said, almost pleading in her tone.  “How can you even live when your views of other people are so cynical?”

“Okay, that’s not fair,” Martim said.  “People aren’t perfect, and I don’t care about all of them, but I still want to look after the ones I do care about.”

“My views on people aren’t cynical,” Arya said softly.  “They aren’t simple, either.  But I want to do what’s best for people even if I can’t make connections with them.”

Dal-Sun’s face gradually softened into a small smile as she looked at Ganymede.

“Even if I lose everyone else,” she said, “I always have myself.”