2030, Sea of Tranquility, East Lunar Special, 2030

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

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

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

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

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)

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

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.