Calope

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

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

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.