Moon Fiction

The Caravan, Pt 3

2010-09-29T13:09:00.001-07:00

“Do you know the story of the Hero Arendt?”
The Magister did not look up. The question was not worth answering. Everyone knew the story of The Hero. He had been taken as a child to become a scribe to the Emperor, a life spent in figures and in constant worship of The Hero that he may rise to become a God.
“He delivered us from the yolk of Earth, you know. They came from the Earth without faces, and ordered us to build more and more solar arrays and grow more and more food. But Arendt knew that without our food and without our solar power, they couldn’t come any more.”
“By the time they found him, hidden deep in the cathedral at Archimedes, it was already too late. He had taken the satellites and turned them, and bathed the surface of the earth in radiation and microwaves. They say that all at once, the lights went out. The seas began to boil and dark clouds blotted out the sun. They say the darkness overwhelmed them. All their crops died, and the air began to choke them. Billions of people died, unable to escape the choking air. The Hero cast them into a dark age from which they may never escape.”
At this the magister looked up. A slip of the tongue, a small heresy almost undetectable. Surely it was a mistake.
“Will never escape, madam.” He corrected.
She did not respond, lost in thought. It was improper to think on the topic, but at one time Arendt had been a boy. Records show he studied at the university at Copernicus, under corporate tutorship. There was rumor that he had been able to journey to the surface of the earth – they thought him clever and loyal, and he was to be given a small kingdom. And in gratitude, he built for them a way to capture the energy of the sun, and do with it as he willed. He willed it to burn the earth. Nobody knows why.
How different life would be, if he had simply taken their riches. His family would probably own half of the lunar face by now. They would all still be out in the fields, swinging scythes under the watchful eyes of soldiers from distant lands. And now she looked at her life.
The emperor had taken everything. She had a year, maybe, before the local vice lords would grow tired of her new taxes and would burn down buildings until the Emperor replaced her. Her family would be cast down, and she would be executed before the lot of them. It was a clever trap, from which there was no clever escape.
But perhaps the emperor assumed she did not know how to claw her way out – or perhaps it had been so long since someone tried that he had forgotten what it looked like. The pistol in her lap had always felt so heavy before, but sitting in her lap obscured by the folds of her dress it was simply an extension of her hand.

The Caravan pt 2

2010-09-27T18:04:00.001-07:00

Continued from The Caravan, pt 1

The interior of the Marchioness’ private carriage is tasteful, lined with soft fabrics and curtained from the blowing dust. She sits perfectly still in the relative cool of her personal cave, dressed modestly in black from head to toe. She has been riding for days around the sea of Tranquility to pay respects to the Emperor in Copernicus and to discuss the fate of their noble house now that her husband has suddenly died. She will ride for days more, the sun growing higher and higher as they near the capital, central to the light side of the moon. As is the fashion of courtiers, she sits with a lapdog brought at great expense from the surface of the leaden earth. Unlike the product of the royal kennels he is a hunter, born and trained to hunt vermin in a much harsher environment than its present royal surroundings. His narrow eyes are focused on the imperial magister sitting across from them.
The magister requested to join the Marchioness’ caravan, and how could she refuse the hand of the emperor. Magister Mubarak was responsible for a long list of duties to the emperor, who has always known that the prohibition on spirits and narcotics have been loosely enforced in Taruntius. Unable to spare the troops required to rid the sea of Crisis of its privateers, he has wisely chosen to simply drown the crater in demands for tribute. While it is impossible to know the exact wages of sin, Mubarak knows what will be required to make this new Marchioness squeeze harder on the casinos and drug dens under her purview. Mubarak the magister is entirely consumed by these figures. He is professional, precise, and adept at his work. However, Mubarak the assassin takes unnecessary risks, inefficient, and worst of all unaware of these faults. For these reasons, the Marchioness is entirely aware of the hands which poisoned her husband’s rum. Her quiet rage permeates the carriage, which only seems to satisfy her companion. He knows she is completely unaware of the primary purpose of his trip. Her preoccupation with the untimely death of her husband has blinded her to the jealous eyes on her family coffers. Even now he casually checks his math, divvying up the Tamar holdings to ensure she is just at the cusp of leisure, quite unable to take her house renegade, unable to pay her way out of the situation.
Nino Tamar was a simple court girl once, 3rd daughter to a cousin of The Hero. She was a girl then, and had a girls interests in the rumors and intrigue at the palace. Oh, how she had pouted when he took her away, over the sea to his father’s wooden city. There she found another kind of intrigue – one of rum runners and opium dens. Gambling houses and love hotels. Privateers and assassins. Her father in law had been a spiteful sonofabitch, and her husband had been a heartless bastard. Now she wondered if she had learned enough from either of them to survive the trials to come.

The Caravan pt 1

2010-09-24T12:40:00.000-07:00

The Caravan set out from Cassini at dawn, a long train of wagons draped in brightly colored sheets of canvas and flanked by guards and mercenary auxiliaries brought by the traders or poorer noblemen. Riding on camels and protected from the blazing sun only by helmets wrapped into a turban, they scanned the distant ridges for a chance to claim reward for spotting the first signs of attack. Behind them, The Marchioness’’ personal guard rode along on two-wheeled engines, flanked by pressured canisters of steam and holding saber and pistol akimbo. Under helmet and plates of armor, they looked forward calm and at the ready, which only served to send tremors of panic through their mercenary shield.

Grinding into the hard-packed earth, oxen and slaves brought from earth’s leaden landscape hurled their bulk against their yolks, pulling the carts and wagons under the watching buzzards. Given every comfort, Gladiators watch through the bars of their cage hoping for a chance to pound their freedom from a wave of marauders invariably peering between the scrub bushes. Fanatics of the Imperial cult walk behind them, their feet unprotected from the stones and eyes bare to the burning dust. Their parched throats sing discordant hymns for the apotheosis of the recently slain hero-king of their suzerainty in Copernicus. Above them, swinging choking incense and resplendent in purple and gold stands a lama. He will stand over his charge, completely unarmed and protected from harm only by the fanaticism of his followers.
Below him, the incense filters into the eyes of wretches behind iron masks, bound by iron chains to the iron scaffolds of the imperial cult’s altar. Men and women write naked, willing and unwilling alike, in penance to his will. Some few of them will walk home in a hair shirt, returning to Cassini with a clean soul. Many of them will never leave the temple at the trade city of Archimedes. They will be sacrificed to the hero-king or enslaved in her service to build wonders in her name.

They are watched by the piercing stares of heretic children, brought from the far northern craters as slaves to the empire in lieu of taxes. They sit in wide-eyed silence under the auspices of a dead-eyed crone who watches every blink and fidget to divine who will join the clergy, who will take up the rifle, who will fill the bureaucracy. She speaks of the Hero-Emperor and her great deeds, and the deeds they will do in her name. An endless supply of children raised to worship the sun or the moon will comprise the fingers of the 3 arms of empire. They nod, eager to please, leaving behind a dirt-floor hut ravaged daily by barbarians in the perpetual twilight of the far far north of Anaxagoras or Baillaud or Scoresby.

A child, large for his age and with a hunter’s sharp eye, hazards a glance away from his teacher to his future. A wall of Janissaries, warrior-slaves loyal to the empire and the corpse of its Hero King glides silently, armed with rifles and spears. Behind this impregnable wall 2 dozen adepts pull the noblewoman’s caravan. They are dressed in fine cloth and protected by a hard turban and the knowledge that if one should fall the rest will not stop pulling. The wheels behind him bear the seal of the hero, assuring that they will die knowing that even the weak know glory as a sacrifice to her return.

Above the menacing wheels the guard captain discusses philosophy with a wandering monk. The captain, under gilded plate and helm, behind tower shield and deadly blade, rubs his pale chin in deep thought while the monk, protected only by a hunting spear and the leather of his skin, lectures on the 8 types of murder which can be done in the heroes name. He can cite great epics from memory, and his Geas will be complete only when he has avenged the murder of a thousand priests. He will travel south to where it is rumored a rectory has been sacked and burned down near the fort of a barbarian king.

In the Library at Rosetta Estates

2010-06-01T11:00:00.000-07:00

Albert Goodfrey, dressed in a 3-piece suit, climbed the steps in groups of two. His face, impassive and stern, did not betray his mood which had been quite lightened throughout his trip home. Immediately after the private awards ceremony where he was promoted to Staff Sergeant, commended for valour, and given a medal for sacrificing his eye he had taken a shuttle to the landing pad at copernicus city and begun the long train ride over the shallow bay to the Rosetta Estate. His heart had lifted as the small city of Taruntius, on the sea of Crisis, had loomed over the horizon. And here he was, at the door of his grandfather's master's home - theirs in writing, his in heart.

The door echoed when he knocked, and he waited patiently as the warmth of the afternoon and no scheduled meetings slowed service. The maid hugged him, relief washing over decorum however briefly, and he was led through the halls to his private chambers. His father was still at the dig site with Peter Rosetta, so he spent a moment transferring his clothing to the closet and was pleased to discover no evidence that his quarters had been used or changed in his four year absence.

He found one of the new Valets, hired in his absence to look after one of the younger siblings no doubt, and swallowed his incredulity when told that the young master was in the family library. The room was cavernous and lined with old tomes. A central tower tastefully displayed a series of hard drives, copied long ago from the Rosetta's first successful digs but kept for posterity, a reminder of humbler beginnings. He found the young man hunched over a leather-bound tome, magnifying glass in hand, under a dusty beam of sunlight.

"I have returned from the front, Master Rosetta, Sir."

Young Jacob Rosetta stood as if in the presence of his father or a ghost. He barely kept the chair from clattering to the floor. With family safely away and the help safely tending to the maintainence of the grounds his face broke into a wide grin and he embraced his childhood friend.

"My God, man! Look at you! You look as strong as an Ox! Has it really been four years?"

Albert nodded in agreement, patting his patron's back.

"We've been following you on the feeds, you know. Richard and I. When he heard about your promotion, you should have seen his face! He was so sure CORPORAL Bridges would outrank you in the end just because they're an old navy family. But we knew, my father and I, the Goodfrey's always get the job done. Staff Sergent in one tour." He whistled, impressed that his friend, valet, and second in battle no matter how hypothetical was one of the few to rank so high. Those families that made their money in banking or opium who looked down on him for a family whose noble title came from digging ancient servers out of the dirt, well, they'd be singing a different tune now that his personal servant was so decorated.

"Merely doing my duty, sir."

Rosetta waved his hand, dismissing the modesty. "My father will be home soon, of course. You'll have to wait until he gets back before you start regaling us with war stories, but I admit I'm simply dying to know. Oh, and I'm certain your father will be pleased as well!"

"Of course, Sir. I see you've been keeping yourself busy?" He gestured to the book, and altogether unknown quantity in the life of a younger Jacob Rosetta.

"Oh! Yes. Of course. As soon as I heard about your promotion I set to fulfilling my promise to you. I've gotten a job!"

Albert was many things. A successful soldier, a tireless valet, an excellent cook, and an empathetic listener. He was not, however, divine and as such was unable to keep his eyebrows from raising in a combination of delight, doubt, and overwhelming surprise.

"A Job, Sir?" Best to make sure he'd heard that clearly.

"Oh, Yes." Jacob nodded enthusiastically. "I told my father before he left, I told him 'Father, I'd like to continue the family business!' and since he left to go oversee the new dig in Oregon I've been getting to know the library and meeting with some of father's associates."

"Well, I'm quite happy for you sir. However, unless my eyes deceive me, the tome before you appears to be rather more about Earth's European History. Quite a heady topic, and one unlikely to serve you well in the business of prospecting for information if you don't mind my saying."

Jacob looked confused for a minute, and then laughed. "Of course! Since there's terribly little to do before I can begin following father on his business doings, I have resolved, also, to become a patron of the arts."

"Have you, sir?"

"Indeed, I have! Just last night, Reggie and I - Reggie's a friend from school at Copernicus, you see - Reggie and I went to this horribly dull little party at a beach house by Crisis. He left almost immediately, but one of the owners is an Artist! He and a friend of his are working to write fictional stories from old times, using real characters. They say it will make for entertaining reading, and divulge truths about the nature in which we view history, or so I'm told. They say, when its published, I can use a 'nom d'plume' for my work as a researcher and writer. Its all terribly exciting."

There was a pregnant pause.

"Well, the research itself is actually quite dull, but I helped them write up a story of Winston Churchill and Jack Churchill fighting side by side in one of the more dramatic battles of the Second World War. Seeing the work completed is a great deal more exciting than the reading that must go into it, but i've found it quite gratifying."

"Well, that is very good news, sir. You had mentioned that it is to be published? Will your father be involving himself?"

"Oh no, that's the best part! I still have most of the family money from after I graduated Copernicus, and I'm resolved to publish the thing myself. They don't know about that, of course. They're resolved to do the thing for the art of it, and I don't want to spoil that. I told them, if we could get a finished product I was sure I could get it published, but I don't think they believe me. Just think how excited they'll be! Perhaps I'll be able to start my own book publishing company, and then we can print all of father's server data without having to pay such outlandish fees!"

"Ah, I see your plan now, Sir. I hope it turns out well for you."

At a party somewhere.

2010-05-26T07:50:00.000-07:00

Jack's eyes narrowed. He'd come to this party in good faith, bearing a sixer of a microbrew from New Orleans under the assumption that an evening of pleasant social interaction was to be had. He had told himself that the objective here was a wider social circle, and there was nothing to be gained by being judgemental. In many ways it had paid off. The music wasn't what he'd put on, but it was pleasant and carried a straightforward beat at a volume that allowed a modicum of privacy in the small pockets of conversation. The drinks were mostly Do It Yourself 2-part cocktails in the form of various 2-liter bottles of juice and various handles of bottom to mid-shelf liqours. He'd played a bit of scrabble until it had gotten heated, and he'd learned about the local anarchist bookstore, which would give him something to do tomorrow. The house, a sort of commune for 5 or 6 residents who preferred quality of life over privacy, had a back yard complete with 5 guys and a dog arguing over when to flip the hamburgers. There were weed-infused sub-parties upstairs, though following one of those crowds seemed an imposition given the acquaintence who he'd come with had left at eleven under a flimsy pretense. He was flying solo, breaking ice where he could, and so far that had gotten him tied up in a knot with 3 or 4 young men and women who clearly shared an office. They had pounced, in the way he had suspected they would from the start of the conversation, like social raptors sensing prey. So, Jack, what do YOU do?

He pretended to be struggling with a particularly difficult swallow of vodka and tonic, and weighed his options.

"Bullshit, mostly. Anyone want a drink?"

Ignoring requests for reinforcements, he sullenly walked back to the haphazardly organized table of bottles. He'd been working those 3 for what had seemed like half an hour. He'd casually walked by, pretended to take an interest in some fragment of conversation, lurked in the periphery, waited for an opportunity to be clever. Lacking a generous soul, he'd parted the waters by force before being treated to a treatise on Carla from HR, the filthy whore. They were on the precipice of a conversation about the latest weird-for-the-sake-of-truth movie offering when hairgel over there had rather violently shifted the conversation to what we do in exchange for money.

"Can I make you something?"

Jack snapped out of it. A rather charming young man was playing bartender. He introduced himself as Oscar, a resident of the home, and it was an absolute pleasure to meet him. And yes, he had vermouth, along with an altogether better class of gin, and for the modest price of listening to him nerd out about drinks he'd gladly share. This last bit he actually said, word for word. A queen sized bed, picture of a significant other, and second wardobe revealed he was, in point of fact, a giant if unknowing tease. But the drinks were good, and when the usual suspects of conversation subsided he turned to a hasty sketch tacked to the wall.

"Thanks, I'm a little proud of that one. A friend of mine and I are working on a project." He trailed off, until given permission to speak at length.

"Well, we're working on writing and illustrating a couple of hero stories. Just for fun, we haven't talked to a publisher or anything, but I'm hoping we can turn it into a graphic novel. We're using people who really existed, though. We want to use real figures, and just make it as pulpy as possible. Like, what if Churchill had actually gone ahead and stormed Normandy with the troops? Tommy guns and all."

Jack pointed, "Maybe he should be teamed up with Fightin' Jack Churchill."

When quizzed, he revealed that Jack Churchill was the only soldier to kill someone with a Longbow in the whole of WW2, that he'd been disappointed with the use of atomic weapons because it ended the war sooner, and kept him from getting to fight more. Oscar was rapt, letting the ice in his glass melt as he was regaled with tales of a larger than life personality behaving like some kind of Mongolian raider on the steppe.

He was handed a card, and told to contact the writer who was, unfortunately, not in attendance. Drinks concluded, Jack was ushered to a literal social circle and introduced to other residents to enjoy the rest of his evening before stumbling out into the crisp early morning air.

Somewhere on the Dark Side of the Moon

2009-10-28T16:43:00.000-07:00

"So, when we come back to life, what's it going to feel like?"
Maria sighed. A squad of almost 30 soldiers were sitting cross-legged around him like a class of kindergartners. They had no uniform aside from the tattered state of their clothes. The fire illuminated their hungry expressions through the perpetual evening of the Dark Side. The stars were out, and beautiful. Under their blanket, groups of tents representing The War-God's mercenary army swayed in the bitter wind. Many of these men hadn't known normal life for over four years, living off tribute from the small farms nearby.

Officer Vega was having a difficult time. When the revolutionaries had stormed her family estate she had been traveling through North Africa as a student. Her attempts to find any trace of them had been a frustrating waste of the years. The end of the Tsar's reign had taken from her a life as a member of court. All she had now was her trade. The hulking thrall that loomed behind her was proof of that. And today, she had been attached to a squadron of the Baron's finest infantrymen. Or so he had said. They didn't look like soldiers worth bringing back from the grave to keep up the fight.

"You won't feel anything." She said. This did not seem to calm anyone down.

A round-faced boy with a mouth like a perfect O pointed at the Revenant who was presently staring at the sky. "We're gonna look like that?

She sighed again. "No, you will not look like Boris. In life, Boris was a Bear."

There was a general murmur of understanding at this. The silence that followed was absolute. Boris turned to the flames with glassy, unblinking eyes. The Baron had told her these men would be proud to be so valued, but she doubted he would care about their concern. Soon, they would be laying siege to the walled city of Daedalus. Their first attack had been a shambles, even though the shamans had declared the date auspicious. They had burned the whole supply of wood, making 3 campfires for every soldier. They must look terrifying in the dark.

Castle Mechta Barracks, 2060

2009-07-14T12:01:00.000-07:00

The bulbous heads of lunar children poked over the walls surrounding the training fields for the Royal Guard of the Crown. This clear breach of security was overlooked as a matter of tradition. When the harvest was done for the day in the surrounding eternal summer young boys deeply comitted to the prospect of causing as much trouble as possible want to make sure they are playing soldier correctly.

In their eyes the men who marched and performed combat exercizes were not real. The halls of the Castle Mechta were lined with myths wrapped in royal dress. Many of the boys who watched were already a full head taller than these guardsmen, but they seemed to occupy so much space. They had all heard tale of criminals in far off places who were unable even to pierce the skin of these monsterous men.

Combat drills were their favorite. Unarmed or armed with clubs they struck each other hard enough to careen across the field. They swung weighted sticks that no mere man could lift, and bounded yards at a time to fall upon their prey. Surely, the weakest among them could break the strongest man from the moon in half without so much as a thought.

Kojo Pierce, translucent shield in hand, was batting away his sparring partner. He was told that one of his fellow guardsmen was as strong as six to ten enraged lunar rioters. Not that he would have to worry about that at the castle. Life was good, if dull, and he had to go out of his way to keep his mind alive during the long hours of standing at attention in front of the gates.

Oddly, he'd been promoted after proving an able marksman on the Wall, protecting the vast network of steam engine trains which rode in and out from under the castle crater. It was gruelling under the constant sun, but he'd learned quick to lead a target and shoot to wound. As a reward for his quality work, he'd been promoted to stand still for long hours and never have to touch a rifle again.

The club wrapped in fome struck him in the chest, knocking him back about 5 meters as he struggled to right himself and catch his breath. he landed inelegantly, was unable to stop the backward momentum, and skipped like a rock on a still pond before planting his shield and feet into the dirt. That had been happening a lot, lately. Losing sight of his surroundings.

Kujo looked up at the young terrors watching them on the distant wall, and envied them their inisght.

Somewhere near Crater Pasteur, 2060

2009-07-13T06:59:00.000-07:00

The crooked wings of the owl circling the smoldering ruin of the eternal night's campfire campfire maintained the hush over a small bandit camp. Arthur took off his glasses and peered disapprovingly at the engine before him, grotesquely splayed on the warm tundra. He seemed distinctly out of place, standing straight and proper with a panama hat on his sandy, sunbleached hair. Surrounded by mongrel men in leathers and chains and armed with hand-me-down arms and armor he scrutinized every detail of the craftsmanship at hand.

Clutching a spanner as if to rend it in half, The mechanic Henricks just wished the feared Warboss Arthur Pendrake would start yelling and be done with this infernal waiting. That was the worst thing about riding with Pendrake. When things were good the plains were yours. Even the mad ones, darksiders who ran whooping and blind across the plains, ran off in fear of Pendrake's Knights and their rumbling trucks and bikes.

Arthur returned his glasses, which wrapped around his face and illuminated the darkness in shades of green. From this view, all of his boys had glowing eyes, staring at him like cats in the night, waiting for his decision. He had ordered a Flagship built and a Flagship he now had, the underappreciated genius Hendricks must have sewn and sundered four looted royal caravans. What stood before him was a fortress on wheels - spotlights in all directions and rifleholes scattered throughout the lower and upper decks. The massive engine block countered by the gattlin' gun 'round back. He counted eight tires. He couldn't count the spikes.

What an awful machine. He cleared his throat.

"Henricks, what do you call her?"

Cherrie, was the meek reply, to the warming laughter of the boys circled around their ever loving boss and his pet grease monkey. The tension had broken. No one was going to be shot.

"Cherrie. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl." He slid his hands along an ugly spike laced with rust, "I'd love to see her in makeup. What do you boys say we ride into town and pick up a lick of red paint?"

There was a roar of cheers and engines as bands of boys leapt into trucks and hollared for blood. It was always a good time when they went over into the light side.

2060, Castle Mectha, Copernicus City

2009-07-10T06:21:00.002-07:00

The firm clip of the marchioness' heels echoed up the duststone walls of the spiral staircase. Even through the myriad stained glass windows the shock of autumnal leaves from the royal forest reminded her that there were matters to attend to at home. She had been saddled with the responsibility for her people beyond the sea of tranquility, and her life as courtesan would have to come to a close.

Her husband had died, and the Archduke of Luna had inited her to the Royal Aviary.

The wisp of a boy who had brought the message as she had sent the last of her husbands things to be shipped and unpacked before her arrival had offered no explanation before turning neatly and marching away. She had allowed herself only a sip of red wine for courage lest she keep his excellency waiting. Her face untouched by makeup and dressed for travel rather than an audience, she did not hover before the glass double doors. As soon as they had clicked shut she exited the cage and into the wirecrossed dome at the height of Castle Mectha.

The Archduke stood, book in hand, staring at the upper crescent of Earth. The molten landscape, indistinguishable from its leaden seas, lit up with constellations of tiny white flashes. She had learned long ago not to comment on the beauty of such distant explosions of light and smoke in front of the earthborne. The men grow quiet and distant, and women cry for no reason. The Archduke Turned.

Like all men from Earth he was short, barely over a meter and a half tall. Earth was a savage place, she had learned from a young age, where even the size of the planet itself drags you down. From such an upbringing, it is not surprising that one grow up short, inelegant and impossibly strong.

"Nino," the informality struck her, "Your husband was a good friend to the Crown." The depth of his voice gave weight to his suddenly personal tone. "And I'm sorry he spent we spent our lives as enemies."

At this, even the birds ceased to sing.

"His lands, now yours, are far beyond the Sea of Tranquility. Far from Mectha and its comforts. Plagued by bandits. I have no business there and even if I did, my guard would deny you my presense. It is a hiding place for rebels and saboteurs, like all places. Unlike all places, it is known as such."

As the duke ceased to speak, Marchioness Nino Tamar of the Crater Taruntius swallowed her rage. Baseless accusations which had plagued her late husband until his death. He, a petty noble, held dominion over the lands which ran through her family, in her blood and through her veins. From the shores of the Seas of Tranquility and Fertility to the south and the Sea of Crisis to the north, traders from the dark side came to her ports and hid in her firmicus mountains. It was her navies, not the crowns, which kept pirates at bay. Her soldiers that kept what little peace that could be had. And their reward for this service? The chance to beg for funds and men enough to continue the labor.

Her husband had been a lot of things - soft in the head first and foremost. Her soldiers were caked in grime and vulgar. Her traders were dishonest and farms and businesses corrupt. Crown Taxmen were chased away by ugly mobs, and caravans were beset by bandits. Her estates were hardly fit to recieve the Earl of Lawrence or DaVinchi - even the Baron of Watts had complained.

But they were not traitors, and to hear the accusation coming not from the whispers bored courtiers trying to stir up trouble but from His Excellency Archduke Regolith Peter Constantine Zond broke her heart and blinded her with rage. She concealed both with a glance to a fat and happy raven perched on the spindly branches above.

"Until we are sure about the circumstances of the late Marquis' death, I must assume the worst. Protocol demands I extend a member of my Royal Guard to ensure your safety. He will arrive within the week."

"Good day, Marchioness"

And with that, he turned back toward the crescent Earth.

The Astrological Society of Khalidi

2009-05-09T10:05:00.000-07:00

Naguib stood with his hands together behind his back, looking out of the window in the Astrological Society tower. The sky was just beginning to purple with twilight, and the parapets and minarets of the city below him swept for miles below ending, brutishly, at the city walls. The rivers carried on into the distant snowpeaked mountains and, far beyond, the tenuous borders of Empire fluctuated under the pressures of barbarian Hordes.

The stairs outside his door creaked again - someone had been standing outside for almost fifteen minutes. He turned to the bronze astrolabe which dominated the room adjusted a small axis at its base to reflect the order of the stars as had been predicted countless generations ago according to the flawless calculations of sages generations ago.

Flawless, until last night. The great North Star had been almost a full millimeter away from its predicted location. The Society was in an Uproar, much to the amusement of the population at large. And, why shouldn't they be amused? How could they understand the unfathomable distance a millimeter makes, or the significance of the change? Indeed, no one understood the significance, himself least of all. As Vizir to the Emperor and Chair of the Imperial Astrological Society, the thing he understood best was how little they understood about the nature of the stars above, and their influence upon the face of the planet.

He had spent all day talking to the dangerous priests of Erathis, discussing at length whether the empire affected the stars or the stars would have an effect on the Empire. He did not know, and was implied for treason before the meeting was through. The librarians of Ioun sent a meek dwarven understudy to ask how to update their records, and how this changed the established prophesy. He did not know, and sent the youngster to the ire of his superiors. The dark-eyed undertakers of the Raven Queen had been loitering outside the tower all day, disappointed in the lack of loose-lipped society members going to and fro.

It had been a very, very long day and he looked forward to recording the trends and prophesy for the evening and embracing the sweet death of sleep. However, it seemed impolite to do so before the student or newshound or assassin outside his door had an audience. And so he waited, with his back to the door, as the last rays of the sun fell behind the mountaintops.

There was a knock.

"Come in." Naguib automatically grabbed a book from the bookshelves which dominated the walls throughout his office and home. The young man, slim enough and with the pinched expression of elven heritage, stepped through looking sick with nervousness, and hovered near the door in case he needed to flee. The lad was very young, and had probably only been just initiated into the order to continue his study. Clearly, he was aware of how far above his station he was hovering.

"I am sorry, Vizir, to disturb you so late. You see, the thing is, about last night."

Naguib thought he was much better about hiding his frustration than he actually was, and attempted to rub his eyes to mask his annoyance. The initiate looked as if he had been struck across the face with one of the rafters above them, and stumbled in his words. He took a deep breath, and tried again.

"Last night, the stars were... singing to me."

Old Man in the Bar

2009-05-08T11:36:00.000-07:00

"Oh Gods, not this story again" Johnny One-Eye muttered as he pushed the grime around the inside of a cheap tin mug before filling it with Ale and passing it to one of the wide-eyed travellers passing through town. Young enough to have forgotten life in the Empire, born a generation too late to know what life was like when you could walk a road unarmed. Back when everyone knew how to read, could go to university, when you could afford to have a few poets or philosophers around.

Those wild halcyon days of the Holy Human Empire, when the dwarves worked hard in the mining camps and the elves were crammed into row-planted forests to keep them in line, and everyone paid taxes. One-Eye spit into the mug to clean off a spot before laying it out to dry.

"So, we're ambling up toward the old capital" the old, drunken pile of rags was just getting started, "And we're just close enough to see the parapets above the walls when all of the sudden" He slammed his mug on the table for dramatic affect. "A column of fire shoots up from the imperial palace all purple and blue and screaming like a banshee."

He drank until a small voice from the back begged to know what happened and then rubbed his mouth with the back of his wrist.

"Well, I says to Vinnie and Tom, I says to hell with this, we're taking the caravan back to the inn and waiting until this blows over, and they say this kind of thing happens all the time in the big city. Hah!"

"So I come back the next day" At this point in the theatrics he leans back, staring at the sagging rafters. "And the capitol city is empty. The buildings are still there, but there wasn't nobody! Not even a blade of grass! Miles of empty city! Imagine that. The greatest city in the world, gone! I didn't know what to do. I slept in some missing blokes house, and by the time I woke up, my damn mule was gone too! And the laughter, I could always hear someone laughing a few feet away but whenever i'd turn there was nobody there."

"But the strangest part is, by the time I had walked back to the town..." And he threw back his hood and opened his milky white eyes.

All three of them.

He couldn't see the reaction of the small band, he guessed they were 4 or 5 among them, but he heard the gasp, and that was enough to lower his hood back over his features.

"Hark my words, lads, and stay far from the old capital city. There's nothing there but death and empty streets. 'tis the Devil's city now."

And he turned back to his mug, satisfied in his day's work.

Until the small voice in the back, with the mark of Ioun on his forehead, piped up once again. "Sounds more like the Summer Queen's work, if you ask me."

The entire bar seemed to focus on the bookish eladrin, who seemed to shrink under the attention like a wilting flower.

"The what queen?"

"I - I was joking of course. The Summer Queen rules over the Feywild. Sometimes travelers will see dancing purple flames and disembodied laughter before being stolen away into the Feywild. But," he laughed "Even she couldn't steal a city."

Dissatisfied with this answer, the crowd returned to their drinks. And the young librarian, returning to sit with his four friends, felt the empty stare of the three-eyed drunk long after he had gone to bed and fitful rest.

The Trap

2009-05-01T11:54:00.000-07:00

"Just so that we're perfectly clear," The Economist said to his bodyguard as he reviewed his notes, "This is clearly a trap."

Their cart ambled along slowly, drawn by the glowing eyes of a partially built horse its head bobbing eerily on a skeletal stalk of a ramshackle neck. The Bodyguard held the reigns easily in his hands, hawkishly peering down the light forest road. Maryland is Bandit Country, and the autumnal bursts of red and gold did little to mask the menace in each step.

"Only a few more miles" The Bodyguard lied. He had no idea. They would follow the tube until they found the break. They could sleep at the settlements in Baltimore if they had to. He hoped they wouldn't have to.

"What the fuck are we going to do if the break is past Philly? We don't have citizenship." He crossed his eyes and spoke in a high pitch "Oh hallo Kublah Kahn, Wurr jes' hear to fix tha Tube!"

He looked up from the tattered text in repsonce to the calculated silence. "Well!? We can't even go around. Those Luddites so much as see a bead that shines the wrong way they'll do God knows what."

"We'll go around."

The Economist Snorted, but didn't voice his concern regarding the surrounding patrols. Hunger's headache had made him cross, and forget the fact that they had a shipment of repair materials due for Newark anyways. He always got nervous when they lost sight of Silver Spring anyhow.

They had been sent to fix The Tube, which lolled a few dozen feet to the right. It was the supply chain between Washington and the front lines in Brooklyn. They had been promised Citizenship without Military Service if they were successful. That meant they could be granted access to Philly or even Anacostia. Someday their kids could go to school and be a bureaucrat and set foot on The Hill. The only safe place in the world, The Hill. For all his complaining, The Economist knew it was worth the risk.

The Bodyguard, on the other hand, had dreams of the fortune that could be found in the Staten Island Colonies. He had a strong swingin' arm, and that made him a valuable comodity just behind the front lines. There was a lot of money to be made in the slow, steady conquest of New York, and a lot of trade caravans settin' out from there. He liked The Economist because he knew what the hell he was doing, but someday he wanted to have his own little security company, make a little money without his neck on the line.

The Tube hummed for a few moments, then stopped. In the distance the imposing walls of Baltimore sat squat and glowing with light electric. The Economist did a lot of business in Baltimore - He had a reputation. He could get into some citizen only spots without too much hassle. The price of doing business while the president promised an imperial march to Boston. Take the North Atlantic. Drive out the bandit. Citizenship for All who would Take Up Arms. Citizenship for All in Victory.

The Economist didn't get it. He didn't believe in the magic of the eastern seaboard. The God-President was so sure that each of the old cities was important to the prosperity of their people but he didn't see how Boston was any Different than Raleigh. The Old Country was dead. It had shrunk in big ol' bites down to 1600 penn. ave, and burst out from there in bloody burning conquest.

At the end of the day, the nation lived on through pure bloody-mindedness. And it was bloody-mindedness that left the wake of barbarian secessionist luddite bodies in the burning wake of the citizen-soldiers who made their bloody-minded march north to Boston and whatever barbarian king resided there now. If there even is a boston anymore. All they had was the honor of scouts on that point.

Calope

2009-04-23T13:02:00.000-07:00

Calope was a bastard born in the arms of a courtier and thrust into the bittersweet world of city high society. His half-elven blood and mysterious lineage more than made up for his lack of standing with the almost paralytically bored capital city youth. Free of responsibility and armed with a perfectly limited understanding of the value of money, they flirted with artists and intelligensia and prepared to inherit and squander their parents fortunes in farmland and connections with the imperial upper crust. After his mother's passing, Calope squandered his modest inheretance within a year, and then floated along on his wit and charm as a scholar perfectly happy to lie if he needed to fill in the gaps. It was not long before he could no longer bear the musty interior of an ill-used personal library or the monotony of tutoring and enscribing, and he set out on the modestly exciting life of a trader of rare books and antiquities.

His first caravan was interrupted in the dead of night by a procession of wood nymphs hollaring his name. He was cheerfully informed that his father had died in lavish comfort among the faerie courts, and upon his death each of his sons would be given to a faery queen. He had the incredible fortune of being chosen by the lavish and beautiful Queen of Summer to be made a Knight in her Summer Court. He was now her agent in the material world, and he was now tasked with defending her realm. He must be like the sun, making the world bright and beautiful and - most importantly - finding and defeating the winter queen's scion who would undoubtably be searching for him. He would be wise to stop consorting with filthy traders and merchants and begin working to defend beauty and light no matter what the cost. Before he could protest, he was touched, and collapsed.

He woke, his entire fortune gone except for the clothes on his back, with the threat of an immaterial queen over his head lest he fail to find and defeat his own brother.

Thraex

2009-04-10T09:00:00.000-07:00

Thraex leaned against the ancient stone, the sound of banging drums leaking through from the amphitheater. He heard the crowd erupt with screams and could tell without looking that a gaggle of murderers had been loosed. Half starved and armed with sharp sticks they were sizing each other up, testing the bonds of the half-witted arrangements they had invariably made in prison to cover each others backs.

"Jonas, don't pick at your tattoo, it'll come off."

Jonas was a big man, bald, and fairly thick. He was about to say that the bright red paint across his chest was itching him, and thought better of it. The remaining three lads leaned against their shields, looking rather more tense than a professional gladiator should.

"Just follow my lead, boys. Remember, we're professionals. Don't worry about the fighting, just give 'em a good show. Wounds will heal, but people will remember a good show for years."

This balmy morning, Thraex was playing the part of the Platinum Dragon, bringing order to the world. He was leading a celestial army to the demon-infested continents of the earth to drive them back, allowing all the creatures to thrive in safety. He had to admit that they looked the part.

Of course, the murderers out there hadn't gotten a copy of the program. They were likely half-killed by now, and by the time they even got on the scene they would be a bloody mess. But as an artist, you learned to work with what you had. Split 'em apart, intimidate them into a quiverring mass, knock 'em down, let the crowd have their say, and from there it was purely a matter of making as big a mess as possible.

This time was slightly different, though. A strange figure in a cloak had given him a bag of gold this morning. Now Thraex was a modestly well known figure among the local gladiatorial fighting circuit. In a year he'd probably be at the capitol. Gifts were not unheard of, but this was the day of an execution. And not just any execution.

Someone connected was in the fray today.

Thraex knew how this worked. There would be a signal. He would hit with the blunt side of his sword and tossed aside. The body gets carried to the pits, and the dead rise up and walk with a nasty headache but alive. He'd seen it done. He'd never done it before.

That was the problem. Most of the people in this job were fighters. But Thraex? Thraex was an actor. And for the earth to be cleansed, every demon must die.

The gates clanked open, and Thraex held his arms sideways to prevent his holy carriage from running into the melee in progress. There was a roll of drums, and the blaring of trumpets. Without shielding his eyes from the brilliant sun, they marched in perfect form. They followed his lead. And they stood, watching the criminal scum of the city fight and kill each other for a full minute before they noticed the presence of armed and armored professionals. Finally, they turned, and Thraex pointed his scimitar and blew a jet of flame into the air. His men charged forward. The crowd went wild.

The environment was perfect. The fight previous had been a bloody mess, packing the sand beneath their feet. They had loosed this divine retribution early enough, so it was 5 to 15. It would be suitably impressive in victory. And a few of the remaining had clearly recieved some kind of weapons training - or at least were big enough to compensate by sheer bloody-mindedness. The hot sun had taken its toll on the unprotected scum, who had been shaved and stripped of all but a cloth and gave them a shambling, malnourished appearance.

Out of the corner of his eye, a scoundrel was attempting to flank him unnoticed. A glint of metal shone in his left hand just before he pounded the earth in a charge of desperation. Thraex pretended to be observing the battle at a distance like a good general, while the crowd whooped and yelled. Suddenly he turned, staring straight into the eyes of his assailant, and bared his fangs as if to glass the sand beneath them both.

In truth, his throat ached from the burst of smokey flame from a moment ago, and he'd likely have torn something had he tried to do it again. But the young man with a guilty verdict to go with his conscience didn't know that. His step faltered, and he dropped his blade. Slipping as he turned to run, he fell in the offal and found himself unable to get up with the armored boot which had found its way on his back. He raised his arms to the crowd. How they hollared for that red, red blood. Demanding he stop wasting his time with such a tasteless morsel when he could be going for such a meal. Kill him. Kill him faster.

But somewhere in that crowd, there was a widow or a rape victim. And as he lifted the young man by his hair and dragged his lucky dagger from his windpipe down to his belly and tossed him aside.

2030, Sea of Tranquility, East Lunar Special, 2030

2009-02-03T15:15:00.000-08:00

The East Lunar Special forded the Sea of Tranquility, the tracks mere feet above the lapping gray waters. In the horizon, a small stretch of land just south of the Sea of Crisis sat fat and green. Nearby, a freighter loaded down with crates of corn, beans, tobacco, all the yield of the land chugged back toward the city in a vain attempt to feed its people while sending enough down the space elevator to keep the electricity coming. And, as Edward stared out the window with droopy eyes at the impending destination, he realized that none of that electricity would make its way across this sea. The only nuclear facility on the planet was at the south pole, and piped north to industrial Tycho Crater.

The spark. That precious spark. Nothing happened on ol' Luna without the spark. Aside from Tycho and Ivansburg, almost every acre of the Moon was arable land. And under that arable land was caverns of hydroponics. Vats and vats of muscle by the pound. Food enough for billions, land enough for, maybe, a million or two.

The excess went down the space elevator. Tons of the stuff, daily. And around the space elevator grew Castle Ivansburg, a massive facility to handle the incoming produce. And around Castle Ivansburg grew Ivansburg City, to house the corporate staff working 24 hours a day 7 days a week. And, when precious little plutonium made it up it was shipped by underground armed caravan to Tycho, where the spark could spread to the few factories nearby and back to the public houses of Ivansburg.

And so the cycle went. But not for the town of Crisis Bay. And not for Edward.

2030, Copernicus City, Metro Center Station, The Moon

2009-01-30T14:54:00.000-08:00

Edward sat on his navy blue duffel bag, posture unbecoming of a recently sworn officer of the peace and executor of corporate law. He was had reread the first paragraph in a thin booklet on procedure for the past half hour, waiting for the East Lunar Special.

When first on a crime scene, first establish a perimeter. Ensure that entering the crime scene has serious consequences first establish a perimeter. Establish a perimeter. Ensure that entering the crime scene first inform the suspect that he is to freeze. Do not fire upon a suspect unless he or she fails to comply has serious consequences. When suspect is imprisoned, make sure they have water and food enough for the night. Do not release the suspect if he or she is feeling ill. Do not fire upon the suspect.

He shut the book, his head ringing. He couldn't read. He was struck illiterate. Why on earth should this be, a clever lad such as he? The past week had been nothing but drills, elevating him from a kid with a gun on a wall to full blown watchman. What he had found out just an hour ago, however, was that he was the only game in town. Acres and acres of land, and one solitary guardhouse. He had been alone since, and was going to be alone for the foreseeable future. And the pit in his stomach hollowed and ground against itself.

It had been a trans formative experience, being yelled out by heavy set gentlemen convinced they could turn boys into men with seven day's time. He had run long distances, shot at paper cutouts of gentlemen on the run, and learned to sleep in a chair with a howling drunk in the tank. He was assured this was mostly what he'd be dealing with, out in the country. Drunks. Good honest folks working an honest day and heading out at 3 in the afternoon to drink half a bottle of potato juice and beat up some ethnic minorities. Or whatever.

And the thin blue line felt pretty damn thin right now. Watching the earth float fat and leaden on the night horizon in between the tall stone buildings of his native Coperniucs city. The parapets of the castle died away in the distance. He had hours to go as the plume of smoke knifed through the night and he took swigs from an unmarked bottle of whiskey when nobody was looking and just as things were starting to look better or at least a little more blurry the darkness closed in and he fell asleep mouth open.

2030, Metro Chief Warrents Office, Ivansburg City, The Moon

2009-01-27T08:52:00.000-08:00

Metro Police Chief Warrens rubbed the bridge of his nose and let the pages of his report fall from his fingers. The setting sun crashed into the capitol city skyline and left an orange haze in its wake, dancing on particles of dust between the wooden shutters. The chief's office is deceptively warm, given its utility. The hardwood floor was accented by a burnt sienna rug, bleeding into the bright cherry and red leather furniture. Parapets of bookshelves exploding with hardbound files and old world books speak of a man with legal ambitions. But Warrens' attention is focused on the quivering young mass occupying the overstuffed chair across from him. Thirty minutes before his left his department, life had seen fit to present him with one last political puzzle.

Officer Roland, elsewhere, is a cacophony of tubes and gauze, floating on stretcher through the stone hallways of the Ivansburg City Hospital eyed wearily by sawbones and strapped to the table. Bound, gagged, and roughly handled the ghoul is carefully dropped in the incinerator. The trains return to their schedule, overloaded for the delay. The only knot left to tie is young Edward - overeducated, underemployed, deserving of reward. Time crawls toward the five o'clock hour, and Department Chief Harris shrugs, exasperated. He couldn't in good conscience let the boy who saved his best man's life walk away empty handed.

"How do you fancy a life in the country?"

("Beer 'n a Shot" Edward will request in two hours, parting with a few precious dollars, wrapping his mind around the prospect of life as a copper. Years of study to end up a blue meanie on the beat with pay to match in some random farming town on the other side of the sea of tranquility. Tobacco, of all things. He is a natural philosopher, for goodness sakes. But, well, down the hatch. Things are supposed to get worse before they get better. It's only a year. Go back to school on the back of bribes. Ain't no harm. Ain't none of his classmates doing better. Ain't nothing to keep him in this bullshit town. Down the hatch. Better go home and pack. He knows he is lucky, but the slope of his spine and shuffle in his step looks like a man on his way to the salt mines.

and, well, he is.)

Rate of Pay, benefits, risks, and location spill across the desk, and Edward signs his name, smiles, and says thank you and kicks his heels as he walks to the bar to smilingly drown the sorrows of the miles of difference between promise and reality.

2060, Heisenburg Estates, The Moon

2008-07-18T02:52:00.000-07:00

Roland woke up in a cold sweat. He had, apparently, felt that the fetal position, fully clothed, and on top of his sheets was the most comfortable position last night. Through the lead cotton haze which surrounded his brain the events of the night previous tumbled through like ice into tumblers of gin. He smiled at his own simile, as he'd had enough fingers of the cheap oily stuff at the local pub for his own two hands and a few spare.

Him and his mates, they'd gone round to the pub for a quick drink when someone had started trouble. There were more and more of them these days, gorillas in black uniforms who thought that the crown on their shoulder gave them the sky above their heads and, more importantly, the right to spit a beer in the face of Buttons the Publican, who had personally rubbed Roland's back as he told profane secrets while lying tortured under the table and influence of wine. Buttons was a good man. He swore like a sailor and had called Roland and his upper-class friends a bunch of fairies more times than they cared to remember but, hey, that was Buttons. He was a nasty old man with one eye who drank on the job, but he was THEIR nasty old man with one eye who drank too much. And unfortunately for the offending patron and the gang of black garbed goons who had come with him, Roland was the son of Sir Kojo Pierce.

In a fight, more often than not, being drunk is a disadvantage compared to being, let’s say, sober. Very little indeed is on your side when you've got no choice but to swagger, lest you fall over. But, when you know this, you can play it off. And, when Sgt. Wood extended his hand briefly to shake Roland took it with the right and broke the half-full bottle of gin over the side of his head with the left. Young Mr. Pierce's friends, who were all fairly thick but good for a laugh, charged into the fray with chairs and laughter while Roland led the boys into glorious battle, gifted amateurs giving it to the professionals.

And the next morning, when Lady Von Heisenburg heard the news, she looked to her husband, the Knight Captain Kojo Pierce, and told him that they had a problem.

Things were not well, around the small but rich city that had cropped up around the cooling towers of the nuclear facility. Jarvis' bandits had taken a liking to the area, and the roar of their motorcycles could be heard in the distance even as they spoke. The Crown was demanding more and more tribute by the month in exchange for precious, precious uranium. People were hungry. Corporate Security was cracking down on the bulletsmiths that had cropped up around the sulfur quarry that had recently started digging just south of town. And now the horse doctor had three low-ranking security officers and two children of petty nobility because the firstborn son in the most influential noble family in the entire quarter of The Moon couldn't cool his heels.

It was time for young Roland Pierce to leave home.

2040, Somewhere Along The Red Road, The Moon

2008-07-15T01:25:00.000-07:00

Twitch sat hunched in the bushes, feeling the tendrils of a cramp rolling along his left calf. Down the hill, he could see the carriage dragging along the road towards the ambush that his boss had so carefully planned. They were down there, ready to send a great big rock hurdling down to stop them, while he had to sit all the way up here looking down Jessica's scope and hoping nobody spotted him. And still the oxen pulled the wagon, and still he sat like a stone.

Down near the road, Beano was breathing too hard. His eyes were wide. Jarvis, the so-called bandit king, was not happy with this development. Beano was nervous. Nervous, and armed. Beano was also new, he hadn't been around as long as Lenny or Scar, not back when they used to pull 10 dollar cons selling empty boxes of treasure and maps to tourists from the castle. No, he was here to shoot shit an' make money, lacking the finesse that Jarvis had come to expect from his boys. He tied on his favorite mask on, a black silk triangle with the mouth of a demon all curly teeth and brimstone, and he leaned down next to his horses ear.

"Baby, we gotta get a new crew."

As if this were the signal, Lenny's boys up the hill let the boulder go, about a decade too early. It crashed into the road and stopped like it should, but the god damned wagon was still yards and yards up the road. So much for the old boys. Well, it’s hard to find a clever man willing to get shot at for any amount of money. Jarvis bellowed, and out his boys came, 9 on horses and 1 in the hills, popping rounds in the air. Today was the payday, he hoped. Today was the day he betrayed his lads and his horse.

And there was the fella riding shotgun, the wood beside him exploding with a round just to his left. Ain't much worth to a marksman who misses all the damn time. The horses all around were kicking and neighing, and Beano was doing his best to waste bullets before he was nearly close enough to hit anything. The pinging of rocks echoed around the sun drenched desert basin as honest men fired out of the slits of the armored wagon, dropping Beano and his stupid hat. Lenny rode down into the road on a thunderous black horse, hammers akimbo, screaming like that would make him shoot straighter, like that would make the bullets swing around him. Jarvis shrugged, shooting his own long-barreled pistol into the kneecap of the shotgun toting gentleman who had been aiming to put a fistful of buckshot into anything moving.

And his boys rode around and around the wagon in a great wide circle, just like Jarvis had told them to, getting peppered with bullets and falling one by one, all the while pinging shots against the armored sides of the caravan and generally wasting perfectly good bullets. The marksman had done his job, the driver had collapsed into a leaking slump, the man riding shotgun was 200 meters back holding his knee and bawling like a child, and Jarvis waved to him. Twitch grabbed his bag of gold and started the long walk back to town.

And in the chaos and confusion, Jarvis kicked in the door, firing madly at the three men expecting their driver to be preventing just this sort of thing. The firing of his pistols, a distant popping outside, echoed in the hot metal chamber of the wagon, deafening him. While his boys rode around like wild idiots (there most only be four left), Jarvis holstered his hot iron. He placed his hand on the cool metal of his quarry. He touched its engines, and its handlebars. Gazed at himself, in his double-breasted white shirt coated with dust. Hanging off the speedometer was a pair of dark goggles, which he placed over his eyes, and the round helmet fit nicely. He smiled at himself. The demon mask seemed to accept the look of a motorcyclist without any dilemma.

He filled it with gas, and left the can upended, sloshing petrol around the room. He kicked open the rear door, threw the machine into gear, and flew out the back on his shiny new motorcycle, the wagon behind him engulfed in flames, his men immolating themselves trying to get at the promised gold that hadn't ever been there. On the road back to town, he spent his last bullet leaving Twitch penniless and oozing in the dusty sunset, while earthrise cast long leaden shadows on the prairie. For the first time in a long time, Jarvis the Bandit King laughed like a free man.

2030, Castle Copernicus, The Moon (2)

2008-06-18T02:33:00.000-07:00

Roland dragged the straight razor up and down his throat in a vain attempt to be rid of the tenacious remnant hairs which clung, just out of sight, under his jaw. It was maddening. He could feel them when he ran his hand under it, but no matter how he moved his chin they were perpetually out of view. And with the blade gliding up and down his neck, Private Roland of the Castle Copurnicus Security Forces learned a valuable lesson about spending time when you are on watch. For, when the train engineer who Edward had sent to find the watch booted open the door and started screaming, Private Roland very nearly slit his own throat. And, had he died gasping on the floor, the trajectory of our story would be very different indeed. Breathing through clenched teeth, he listened to the disorganized ramblings of a terrified civilian desperate for help. Clutching his throat, he grabbed his coat and rifle.

“He told me to get someone from security I’m really sorry about your throat but this is the closest watch office and I didn’t know if this is where I’m supposed to go the depot is right this way do you think you’ll be able to catch it or what are you going to do if it gets out should I go get anyone else to help?”

Roland rolled his eyes, dividing the crowds of merchants which loitered around the southern train station hoping to prey on country folk on their first visit to the big city. The slate grey uniform did more to scatter them than his broad chest or the magazine he was double checking en route. While the clumsy engineer struggled to unbolt the second story gateway. Ignoring the deadbolt behind him, he looked down from his perch at the train below, at the old moon dust stone, and at Edward with his back to the wall listening to some idiot civvies on the other side of the door.

It was not long before Edward began to feel foolish. He had done everything he ought to, everyone got out safely, the castle was safe, and the only thing he had gotten wrong was that he was on the wrong side of the door. It’s always the small details that get you in the end. Funny how things like that sneak up on you. The quarantine doors on both ends of the track slammed shut, preventing either party from escaping.

The train depot had been a recent addition to the castle, relatively speaking, but it had that kind of fake old-architecture so that it didn’t stick out too much. They had used the same moon dust concrete that the rest of the castle walls had been built out of, rising above him to form a kind of elongated dome. The soft yellow bulbs and brightly colored maps and advertisements did little to ease the stress brought on by his ears aching to hear some hint of the Ghoul’s location. Pressing his back against a smiling buxom woman endorsing The Broken Drum café and bar, Edward edged along the scraping stone toward the nearest door, his eyes darting up and along the domed roof before falling on a soldier with the pale grey uniform of internal security. He waved, terrified to make any more noise than necessary.

Roland waved his hands in a circle. From his vantage point, nothing was moving. He peered through his rifle, waiting for the sound of skittering ghoul to fill the amphitheatre. Hoping that it would take the bait of Edward as he skulked around the corner, a sharpshooter asked to assault. Praying that Edward would have the god given sense to fall back to where he could shoot, and put a bullet right through the frail thing without killing someone’s son. His finger tensed on the trigger as he lost sight of the shooter, and he waited.

When the rifle went off, he gasped with surprise. There was the sound of a scuffle, growling, fighting, somewhere unseen, a bullet hole plinking into the dusty wall. Edward emerged, scrambling, ignoring his training and firing from the hip. The Ghoul, wounded, clambered over the train, holding its arm. Roland hesitated, watching the display from above, as the Ghoul gnashed its teeth and leapt to the relative safety of Roland’s Balcony. Instinct raised his rifle, and he fired, before feeling teeth sink into his left forearm and collapsing to the dim sound of gunfire somewhere in the distance.

2030, Castle Copernicus, The Moon

2008-06-11T02:49:00.000-07:00

Edward watched another train snake into the city gates through the notches on the top of his bolt-action rifle. He was perched lazily on the southern wall of the castle and capital like a gargoyle, watching between the ramparts for ghouls trying to get into the city. The slate grey monsters weren’t smart, which was a blessing, but they also ate iron and could latch onto the train trying to feed in order to reproduce. A pregnant ghoul dropped in the middle of the train depot would cause a panic, infection, and quarantine. There was no real way to shake ‘em off except to employ a sharpshooter. Edward had one job, and it was to put down anything with grey skin clinging to the side of that train, which seemed to crawl painfully out of the southern woods, through the fields, over the moat, and into the castle’s back door.

Edward sat up, his spine creaking like wood, and blinked in the warm sunlight of the afternoon. He knew he was lucky to have this job – army work was one of the few ways for him to pull himself and his family out of the gutter. If he did well here he’d be promoted, and a chest full of medals could maybe catch the eye of a young aristocrat with an eye for a war hero. And unlike the brutish men of his profession he’d be charming and kind, with integrity and a romantic eye. And finally when he worked up the courage to ask her for her hand in marriage she would weep with happiness to marry for love, and he’d earn the trust of her father and the favor of her mother and never have to come home to an overcrowded hovel near those smelly docks again.

Edward blinked.

Something moving caught his eye.

Something grey, climbing along chipping red paint of the train.

Some things, actually.

He grunted as he jammed the butt of his rifle into his shoulder, and fired wildly. The shot pinged off the side of the train, and his training took over. He lined up the sights, and fired. The first of the slathering grey monsters fell onto the field, writhed in the pain of the sunlight, and scrambled back to the comfort of the wooded shade. The rifle cracked again, the train shedding ghouls like fleas but growing closer and closer to the tunnel right below. Sweat pooled on Edward’s brow, one of the monsters fell off of the bridge screaming into the water, and was taken by the flow. He pulled the trigger, trained on the last of the monstrosities and heard the unfortunate click of an empty box magazine. It clicked again, and then three times in succession before the monster slipped into the darkness beneath him.

Edward had let one slip through. He had to get down there. He grabbed a handful of bullets and slung his rifle over his shoulder before hurling himself over the wall behind him, shimmying down the emergency rope left just for this occasion. Landing in an open courtyard, he shouldered his way through the crowd brutally despite cries of protest. He spilled into the downstairs tunnel towards the train depot, scattering a gaggle of schoolchildren on some sort of field trip. He leapt over the last batch of stone steps, landed awkwardly, and stumbled down the hallway toward the sound of screeching brakes and the hiss of steam. He screamed at the train guard who tried to stop him, and pulled his rifle back to his shoulder. As soon as he was in the depot he screamed quarantine and everybody fled, dropping boxes along the way. Doors slammed shut, and bolted. Silence filled the long depot, with half unloaded freight trains, and the clatter of bullets being re-inserted into the magazine. Silence. Edward was alone with the monster.

2035, Heising Estates, The Moon

2008-06-10T01:53:00.001-07:00

A heavy adding machine smashed into the ground at the feat of Watch Captain Kojo Pierce as he walked up the bright grassy path to the von
Heising Estate. Looking up he saw a cleanly broken window directly above him, the glass as neatly gone as if the window had never been there. Kojo found the silence eery. The grounds had suffered the brunt of the attack - the machine looked dirtied but not even dented. The captain, his blue greatcoat almost comical looking in the spring sunshine, rubbed his hands together and cradled the machine, so big he could barely see over it, and thanked the hours he spent building strength in his younger days. Trudging to the door, he briefly considered decorum before tapping the door with the toe of his left boot. He struggled to enjoy the nice weather, the presence of birds in the stately maples that lined the various paths within the estate walls, and the modestly gothic archetecture which hid the fact that construction on the mostly-empty home had just finished. It may as well have been here for ages. Counting leaves of ivy crawling up the doorframe rather than fingers going numb, the time managed to pass until the door opened.

Marcus Chevalier piqued an eyebrow at the sight of a six foot tall adding machine on the doorstep of his lady's estates. Not wishing to offend the man behind, he approached cautiously. "...may I help you?"

"Damn it Marc, it's me. Let me in before I drop this thing!"

Briskly stepping aside, he gestured to a stout table with a mirror in the entryway. "Of course, Captain Pierce. Right this way."

His face dark with the exertion, Pierce very nearly dropped the heavy machine and turned to the Valet. Marcus Cavalier was a tall man with pointed features and a pale complexion. His white hair was immaculately groomed in a manner which suggested that, perhaps, he was in need of more trying duties. He took the Greatcoat from the Captain, keeping it at arms length from his own black suit, and hung it in the adjoining closet - a facility prepared to host great parties and currently quite empty.

"I am confident Madame von Heising should appreciate the effort, Captain, but I assure you the formal dress is unnessesary. This is, after all, a simple luncheon meeting - not a military tribunal."

Chest shining with brass and silver, Kojo smiled in his sharp but admittedly fading military dress. "Trust me, Marcus. I'd much prefer to be on the wrong end of a lawyer than Miss Heising. How is your fencing arm?" Kojo took off his leather holster and offered offered his pistol to Chevalier, who immediatly waved it away.

"I should think Madame has sufficient trust in your moderated temper. After all, if I cannot trust the Captain of the Watch in Madam's estate I think we shall have no luck at all so far away from Ivansburg. Please, follow me." The Valet set off at a healthy clip up a carpeted flight of stairs. He thought, briefly, to stop the Captain from carrying the Adding machine but decided against it.

Moments later, Marcus Chevalier opened the doorway to Madame Emma von Heising's study. "Watch Captain Kojo Pierce, with Adding Machine." From behind her desk, the noblewoman looked darkly at her sarcastic Valet over her reading glasses and gestured lightly to send him off.

"Bit of a draft in here, or is it me?" It was hard to tell if the Captain was smiling over the adding machine as he set it down heavily on top of a priceless Turkish office desk from the early twentieth century. "If this is a bad time, I can come back later. Not often I have an excuse to bring out the old dress uniform."

Lady Emma von Heising, in a flowing white dress, turned her furious gaze at the dark skinned watch captain. "I called you here to discuss the nature of the Town Watch's future, but if you'd prefer to joke..."

Kojo bit his tongue. An informal luncheon indeed.

"We just recieved the last shipment of lead plating for the reactor interior. In a month, last brick for the cooling tower will be complete. We have the appropriate storage facilities for waste, and ours will be the first viable source of energy for this entire quadrant of the moon that doesn't come from a watermill within the month." her fingers made a steeple over the vast bog of paperwork. "It has been a very busy day."

"Well, um, congratulations Madame. I'm sure the power plant will be a great success." The Captain sat, unable to find comfort in the lush chair which held him.

"A great success indeed. If everything stays on schedule the Heising Electric Power Company is going to be printing money, not only for my estate but for Shaniko as well." She leaned back. "I have just agreed to power the town for free in exchange for the right to base all levels of operation away from the plant. As soon as people catch wind, they're going to flock to the city. In droves. And I don't think your town mayor appreciates that fact, and I don't think he's prepared for it. I'm also fairly certain he sees me as a giddy socialite."

Dismissing the look of concern on Captain Pierce's face, she continued. "I'm digressing. The fact is, none of this can happen if the power lines aren't safe. There are bandits out there, Pierce. There are dozens of people who want to cut into what will be my power plants territory, though sabotage or whatever else they can think up. There are honest people who want free power for their little settlement, and I can't have any of those.'

"Let me stop you right there. Lady von Heising, I'm sure you appreciate how hard my boys work to keep the town safe, but there's no way at all they can keep your lines safe. And if the town is going to have as many people coming as you say, I'm going to need every last one of them." Captain Pierce started to stand up.

"You don't understand, Captain. I don't need the town watch. I need an order of knights. Based in the town, patrolling the territory, and I will be their patron so they'll take extra care of my power lines. But I need a military man to start one. Someone like you."

Captain Pierce sat back down and leaned in. He almost whispered across the desk, "I don't think you understand what has to happen for someone to start an Order of Knights. First of all, you have to be a Knight-"

"-and to become a knight you have to be a noble. And for you to become a noble you'd have to marry one. Which is why we are going to be married next week."

1901, London, Louis' Flat, Earth

2008-06-05T23:58:00.000-07:00

1901, London, Earth

Jonathan Crown, 19 years old, sat naked on the corner of the bed embraced by the hazy arms of opium smoke. His clothes were scattered around a room that was not his as he stared out the window, across the horizon, at the first rays of sunlight creeping through the city. He swayed, drunk on wine and food and success, smiling distractedly. Louise shifted behind him, waking after a night of hard work.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” John said, “I’m leaving to become rich.”

“Me too, honey.” She rolled like her Irish accent, but Mr. Crown wasn’t looking at her any more.

“My father is dead,” he smiled, “and war is coming. It’s terrible, and I am going to use it to become the richest man in England. In the world. I have scientists and a gold mine that’s full of steel and I’m going to arm the world with cannons that shoot straighter than any other.” He tried to gesture, to emphasize his soul at hazard, but only managed to move the air.

The room was silent. Damning him. Already the Syphilis had come into his body, was fighting through his veins, digging its way to chip away at a brain already sore with tragedy and newfound wealth. Trenches dug by errant youth, the spikes in his veins, the poisonous breath of sweet sweet poppy and late nights prowling the streets were now flooded with gold.

“I’m going to India. To arm the world. Do you know anything about history?”

She felt his eyes upon him, and roused herself. She shrugged in response.

“The Ottomans almost took the world with cannons and numbers. Everybody pretends it never happened, but they almost did it. And you know why they couldn’t?”

With eyes longing for sleep, Louise shook her head.

“They were tied down. To a nation. Louise, I’m going to take the world. With guns so beautiful people will be begging to use them against each other. I…” He stopped, putting his fist to his chest and closing his eyes as his dinner shifted uncomfortably. “I am going to rule the world.”

Louise leveled at him, the lines of a hard life etched across her face, uncomfortable with a drunken customer unwilling to leave, forcing her to tell him everything was going to be okay. And when she asked him simply, “Why?” it seemed to cut him across the chest.

“I don’t suppose I know. But I can tell you this much. People are rotten to the core, and if you’re smart you won’t bring a boy into this world. Even if you bring him up right, someone’s going to put a gun into his hand and make a killer out of him, and he’ll thank them for the privilege. It’s a wicked, wicked world and I think I should very much enjoy being the wickedest man on the face of it.”

And they sat there, as she eased behind him and held him in an adequate embrace. He leaned backward; fell into her, his eyes never leaving the coming dawn. He spoke rhetorically for another half an hour, asking her questions with no answer, which she dutifully provided. She waited for him to leave, so she could return the statue of Mary she felt compelled to hide on working nights. As he roused himself, awkwardly replacing his many-layered attire, he smiled again and looked around the room.

“Do you want a country? Name one. I’ll give it to you. Do with it whatever you please.”

She sighed at his cruel game. “Fine,” she said, her eyes not smiling, “I want you to give me the moon.”

Jonathan Crown laughed at the joke, watching as the return of blue skies cast Louise’s property into obscurity. As he walked out the door of her den, he would leave behind the last pleasant evening of his life. He would think back fondly to this evening, as he built his empire and armed the nations of the world to better kill each other. He would write letters to her, pages of apology and meaningless drivel, which he would give to his valet to mail. He would dutifully place them in the fire. As his brain eroded under the weight of decision and disease, Jonathan Crown became two men, fierce in his public life and mad in his private, every night going to bed with dreams of Louise and her Moon. He would grow old and finally die, leaving behind a will and testament dedicating the direction of his entire corporate empire to the wishes of an unknown London prostitute with an Irish accent.

1944, Crown Corporation Board Room, Earth

2008-06-04T00:53:00.000-07:00

A sudden silence filled the boardroom. Harsh white light filled the screen behind Dr. Scott as the final slide peeled away. It reflected off of his glasses and the tips of pens cropping off his double breasted white coat. Brass colored light danced around the room like a utilitarian dance party. The doctor was petrified. Having spoken for over three hours the vacuum caused by the end of his presentation was as harsh as the light behind him. Someone coughed. Papers rustled. Life returned to the room from behind the veil and, mercifully, Dr. Scott's graduate student, Harvey, turned off the projector. Smoke drifted around the tastefully Spartan room, marginally larger than the old table around which sat 8 serious men - not fellow scientists but business men, money men - who would determine how Dr. Scott and his graduate student Mr. Harvey Ivanovich would spend the next 50 years of their lives.

"So your plan, Mr. Scott", the doctor suddenly heard the sound of grinding teeth and realized it was his, "is to build the compound here, locally, divided into eight parts."

Three hours of facts and designs compressed into a sentence. Dr. Scott nodded, pleased they had understood that much.

"Then launch them all at the moon, upside down, with no consideration for entry, and simply hope that the damage is not enough to kill the 5,000 people on board."

Adjusting his tie and clearing his throat, Dr. Scott prepared to say something horrible.

"If my calculations are correct, gentlemen, we can expect casualties of 100 civilians, plus or minus 20%, which will leave more than enough men and women in the hub to find the remaining 8 parts and build a complete facility. After that, it's simply a matter of time before the atmosphere will be suitable to sustain life."

8 men, wearing modest suits, stared at him as he said this. It was absolutely devastating. Harvey's enthusiastic but ill-timed thumbs up almost made him burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Another cough, more papers shuffling, some adjustment of ties. "And this will cost us fifty billion dollars?"

Raising his finger to point out that appendix F detailed the specific requirements for each element of the project; he was interrupted by a younger man, sitting farther away from the end of the table. "Before we start talking about cost: 120 lives? Green's program doesn't kill anyone."

"It also costs almost 300 billion, and won't be finished for as many years." A sneering executive with blond sideburns retorted, taking a drag off his cigar.

"To be fair," this was someone in the back, "That's only a billion a year. Easy to finance." Wave of laughter. The doctor swallowed. He was losing them to their own buddy-buddy camaraderie.

"Gentlemen, if you will consider the speed at which my program will be--"

A loud, resonating baritone came from the far end of the old myrtle-wood table, from the oldest gentleman in the room. It interrupted the doctor as effectively as a dagger.

"What will the cause of these deaths be, exactly?"

"Well, assuming everyone is prepped for the low gravity pressure change upon impact, mostly head trauma. I'd say the vast majority."

"Your budget details forty-nine billion, eight hundred and ninety five million, three hundred and four thousand, and ninety dollars. What do you say we just round up to a clean 50 billion, buy everyone a crash helmet, pay Dr. Green to come on as a consultant, and give the nice doctor here a raise? We'll let the boys from accounting thank us later."

"Well," Dr. Scott said, voice all a-quiver, "That will certainly make the tax season easier for you. Both of us, really."

A wave of chuckles, having made a business joke for business men in a business meeting, washed over the Doctor and, to a lesser extent, Harvey. As the tide went out it took with it anxiety from months of planning.

"Then it's settled!" he said, the first real faux paus he'd made all afternoon.

"Not quite. One question." Blond had raised his hand, looking vaguely interested at the dictionary-thick report. "If the eight pieces connect in the way you lay out here, the completed facility is going to look exactly like a castle."

Silence.

"Was that intentional?"

With a determined force of will, Dr Scott began to stammer. Before he could really explain himself, Harvey leaped in.

"Gentlemen, please." The cocksure voice of a man who knows he's done the lion’s share of the real research. "You're going to tell me you don't want to own a castle on the moon?"