by A. R. Knight
“Erin?” Mox commed. “Are you there?”
Mox turned towards the wreckage of her tower and walked. Picked his way over broken furniture and broken bodies. The dust in the air made it impossible to see more than a few meters ahead so Mox switched his helmet to the infrared spectrum. Heat signatures popped out of the gray-scale universe. In the haze, that'd help him find any bodies.
“Mox?” Erin's voice was weak, quiet. “Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you,” Mox said. “Where are you?”
“The lobby. I didn't make it out,” Erin said. “It's not yet collapsed, but we can't open the doors. They're blocked.”
Mox broke into a run, or at least as much as he could muster without falling over. A mass of green and blue and red broke out of the haze in front of him: heat signatures. People, and Erin might be with them.
“Hold on,” Mox said. “I’m going to try to get through to you.”
The wall of rubble blocking the doors was immense. Broken steel beams, office furniture, and endless array of ceiling tiles, carpeting, and mangled bodies stacked in front of him.
“Ops, I got a lot of people trapped in the lobby of tower three,” Mox said.
“We're moving, but heavy crews are busy keeping remaining towers upright,” Ops said. “Recommend you dig a way out if possible.”
Mox look to the left and right of the wall. Given the way the tower fell there might be an opening in the side. Mox ran along the wall, to the corner of the building and then around. As he moved, the tower made another long series of groans. Still a lot of rubble on top. A crumbling pile of wreckage that threatened to collapse the lobby in on itself. The side of the tower was a better prospect, dusty and dirty but clear of heavier barriers. There were offices here, their windows pointing out to the courtyard.
“Erin, come to the west side,” Mox commed.
“Coming,” Erin's faint voice replied.
Mox looked around and grabbed a shattered piece of a steel bar. He hefted it in a double grip and brought it down one of the long, tall office windows standing in front of him. It broke apart, glass falling everywhere, but now there was a way in, and a way out. Mox went in the office and noticed bits and pieces of ceiling tile were dropping from above. The structure was getting worse and worse. They had to get out now.
Mox yanked open the office door and looked into swirling dust.
“This way!” Mox shouted.
Answering yells came from down the hallway and soon Mox saw the first stragglers approaching. They had their sleeves, scarves, napkins pressed to their mouths and noses to keep from inhaling the dust. They struggled along, feeling their way. Mox ushered them through the office, pushing them out the window, telling them to run towards the closest set of lights. To get away from the tower as fast as possible. Five, then ten people went by and still no sign of Erin. The stream slowed to a trickle, one last one walking past.
“Wait,” Mox grabbed the woman's shoulder. “Where's Erin?”
“I don't know who you're talking about,” the woman said. “But there's some still back there, stuck.”
Mox sprinted down the hallway into the large rectangle of the lobby.In the center Mox saw a few tangled bodies still moving, trapped under a large section of the ceiling.
“Mox!”
Erin, half of her caught beneath the pile of rubble. Mox ran over to her, started pushing away the wreckage.
“Sorry, this fell just after you asked us to move,” Erin said as Mox threw away a chunk of it, an office chair. “My comm is broken, so I couldn't tell you.”
“Don't worry, I'll get you out,” Mox said.
Above them the ceiling crackled, more tiles falling with heavy, terrifying thuds. Some of the other trapped people yelled in terror, some of their screams silenced as falling chunks made their ends. Mox stood over Erin, blocking any pieces so they bounced off his armor-plated back rather than her. He ripped away a slab of carpet, exposing Erin's battered legs, her tan pants shredded.
“Can you move them?” Mox asked.
“I think so,” Erin said. “Just a bit more.”
Mox was moving as fast as he could, but his arms were tired. He could feel the burning along his muscles, feel the exhaustion slowing him down. Everything felt heavy, painful. But there were only a few more chunks. One last mass of carpet and plaster. Mox turned and heaved the pile off, and then Erin was crawling free. Mox reached down, grabbed Erin's arm and picked her up. Moved towards the hallway to the exit.
And then the world collapsed. The weight of a falling building crushing Mox and swallowing him in blackness.
6
Recovery
The halo in the sky was white. Mox blinked. Not the sky. The ceiling. A bright lamp. Mox turned his head to the side and saw the medical bot, long and lanky and covered in instruments, stride into the room.
“Congratulations, Mr.—” the bot started.
“It's just Mox.”
“Very well. You survived,” the bot paused. Mox wondered if he should be elated. And maybe he was, but happiness was buried right now between an endless cascade of aches from throughout his body, all of them blunted through the liquid hanging in the IV bag next to the bed. “And with minor injuries, aside from the concussion. Provided you show no further symptoms, we should be releasing you this afternoon.”
The bot turned to leave.
“Wait,” Mox said. “Were there any other survivors? A woman, Erin?”
“You came with many others from the tower wreckage. I am unclear to whom you might be referring. I apologize,” the bot said, before walking out of the room.
A few minutes of staring later, Sarge came by. His official uniform, a pairing of white with red accents, fit tight. Sarge looked at it briefly and grimaced. Then snapped his eyes to Mox.
“Glad to see you made it,” Sarge said.
“Ever have a building fall on you?”
“That's an achievement unique to you, I believe.”
“It's awful.”
Sarge nodded.
“Did she live? The woman I was with?”
Sarge shook his head.
“You were crushed, and she was beneath you. Your plating kept you alive,” Sarge didn't need to explain what happened to Erin. Mox kept his face straight. There would be time for that later.
“And Yuri?”
“He's pulled through the rough part,” Sarge said, brightening. “He'll make it out.”
Mox nodded. At least there was that. Then his mind slipped back to the tower, to the frantic digging to get Erin out of the lobby. To the effort of getting the old man to safety.
“I should have been able to save her,” Mox said. “But I wasn't strong enough.”
“No man would have been,” Sarge replied. “Get your rest. Take the next few days off.”
“If they find the one that blew up the towers, I want in,” Mox said as Sarge made for the exit.
“You'll be first in line,” Sarge replied.
Mox settled back on the pillow, shut his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come.
7
The Doctor
The coffins, sculpted from moon rock, launched towards Earth one by one. The same magnetic rail cannon that could send armored goods to the Moon's sister planet gave a last flight to Erin, hours sailing through space before becoming a firework in Earth's atmosphere.
You said you wanted to be stronger. I've left an address on your comm. Selene Stone is the only one who can help you, if you want it.
Mox turned away from the screen, a small display set against the grime-covered gray wall of the clinic's waiting room. Three chairs splayed around the floor, their cushions so stained and torn that Mox preferred to stand. Overhead, a pale light flickered when Luna's mag trains shot by above. The taste of metal filled Mox's mouth. A heavy lock turned, weights sliding to dislodge a door from its seal.
“It's time,” the woman said, her ghostly hair flowing out from the welder's mask covering her face. A thick apron plastere
d her front, black gloves wrapping up her hands to her elbows. “No second thoughts, I hope?”
Mox shook his head.
“Good. I don't give refunds,” the woman disappeared back into the room she'd come from, leaving the heavy door open. Mox walked through.
If you go, understand it won't be easy. Though I don't think that'll be a problem for you.
The doctor was shifting a cart over beside the lone bed in the room's center. Mox's eyes went to the object hanging above, a series of interlocking metal plates, each one with sharp points sticking out of one side. Points that would soon be cutting into him. The rest of the room was full of tubing, machines spitting numbers on readouts Mox didn't understand. He could die here and he wouldn't understand how.
“On the bed, if you would,” a man, dressed like the doctor, appeared next to Mox, stepping out of the reception office, its narrow slit looking out into the waiting room.
“You wear multiple hats,” Mox said.
“We keep it lean around here,” the man replied.
The bed was cool to the touch, covered in plastic.
“It's easier to clean out the blood than fabric,” the doctor said, drawing a syringe full of a clear liquid. “You won't be awake to care anyway.”
“I don't want to pass out,” Mox said. “I want to feel it.”
The doctor laughed, a wispy cackle.
“I don't think so,” the doctor said. “The sedative's for my safety, not for your machismo. When your nerves meet their new friends, I don't want them spasming into my face. Now, on the bed.”
Mox swung his legs onto the mattress, set his head face-down. A hole cut out in the mattress let him stick his face through. On the floor in front of him, stained into the gray steel, were splotches of rust-iron red. He'd be adding his own drops soon.
“Take your last breath as a human, because you won't be one when you wake up,” the doctor hissed next to his ear. Mox felt the pinch of the needle and followed the pain into oblivion.
When you wake up, come find me at Strawman's Spirit. There's someone you should meet. - Sarge
8
New Life
Strawman's Spirit, a dive for Moon rock miners, the ones riding grinding bots through the crust, gathering minerals and creating new living spaces for Luna's growing populace. Mox pressed on the sliding door and it shot open, swinging on its hinge and ramming against the wall. The sparse crowd looked up at who would bother banging a door this early in the morning.
“Sorry,” Mox said to the bartending bot, an older model covered in grease stains and rust. It nodded back at him, the bot's block head a poor substitute for a friendly face.
Sarge sat at the bar, a cloudy yellow beer sitting in front of him. Mox, every step shooting fiery pain along his legs, walked over, took the seat, and held up two fingers. The bot, seeing the order, grabbed an unlabeled bottle of whiskey from the shelf with one arm, notched a glass on the bar with a second, poured the exact amount, then shoved the glass precisely in front of Mox with a third. Then it hesitated.
“It's on me,” Sarge said.
“You got it,” the bot replied, then rolled along the bar to help a man sitting on the far end.
“It hurts,” Mox said.
“It's worth it,” Sarge said. "I've seen what those exoskeletons can do.”
“Why aren't they mandatory?”
“Because they're banned,” Sarge said. “No augmented centurions. Too dangerous. They pushed Selene underground for even offering it.”
“Then why?”
Sarge took a long pull on the beer. Turned to look at Mox.
“They figured out how the bombs made it into the towers. That suspect, Ryder? He used your helmet. Took data from it, used it to get access after hours to those buildings and plant the explosives. Was probably doing it while we raided the school last night.”
“I don't understand?”
“You didn't disable the helmet before they stole it. And when the bombs went off, you didn't guide people to the exit. You ran towards one tower, left hundreds of people confused, their lives at risk.”
“It was chaotic.”
Sarge shook his head.
“You went for the woman,” Sarge paused. Mox knew Sarge expected him to deny it, to fight, but there wasn't anything to deny. “They'll be dismissing you as soon as you report back. Gross negligence.”
“So I have nothing.”
“No, you've got that suit, and the power that goes with it,” Sarge raised his glass towards the man at the end of the bar. “That guy there, he's a regular through Luna. Does security jobs. He'll take you on.”
“I’m not leaving,” Mox said, then took his first sip of the whiskey. It burned his throat raw, the harsh heat a welcome distraction from the pricks running up and down his body. “Not until I find Ryder Kand.”
“That won't be hard,” Sarge said. “We know where he is.”
“Why're you here then?”
“They want to see who he's working with. The plan is to follow him, track his associates, then pin him for the crime.”
“He'll get away.”
“That's why I'm here,” Sarge tapped on his comm. Mox's own wrist buzzed a second later. “That's the location.”
Sarge gulped down the rest of his beer, stood up.
“You were a good man, Mox,” Sarge said. “Don't let that stop now.”
Sarge disappeared out the doors. Mox watched them swing shut, took another pull of the whiskey. When he turned back, the man sitting at the far end had moved next to him.
“Does it hurt?” the man asked. “Cause it looks like it does.”
“Like hell,” Mox replied.
“Name's Davin. Sarge said you needed work?”
“Have a job first.”
“Sarge mentioned that too,” Davin took a swig of the beer. “We'll help.”
“Don't need it.”
“Sure, but I need to see whether you're worth hiring. It's an audition.”
Mox stared at the remaining whiskey, the amber sitting still in the glass. He'd either end up dead tonight, or leaving home. Possibly as a wanted man. Mox finished the burning booze, stood up from the stool.
“Then let's get started,” Mox said.
9
Vengeance
Ryder was in Crater's Edge. An abandoned district full of crumbling hotels and resorts blanketing an asteroid crater's rim, their blocky construction owing to Luna's origin. Build before architects used the Moon's low gravity to create buildings like the four towers and their glass walkways.
Crater's Edge fell apart as fancier resorts captured tourists and their coin, leaving empty structures sitting for whomever wanted them. Mox met a fair few of those on patrol, the hidden parts of Luna's ecosystem, pushed to where nobody noticed them. And so Crater’s Edge survived in the aftermath of Luna's birth, its luxuries home to those without.
Davin put a hand on Mox's shoulder as they came up to a grand marquee, naming the building, in block letters, Starlight's Refuge. It was seven stories tall but beyond the sign, a gilded star burst of letters that fit the name, the hotel resembled a concrete block. Mox had patrolled through this area before, and inside that derelict hotel would be hundreds of squatters. People that had either come to Luna expecting great things and not finding them, or, having lost them, wound up here.
“Pause for a second,” Davin said.
“Why?” Mox replied.
“Because he wants to know that I've scoped this place,” said a woman emerging from the entrance. “Your target's on the third floor. He's got a big room, and an audience.”
“Phyla, meet Mox,” Davin said.
“Hate to be on your bad side,” Phyla stepped up and extended her hand. She wore fatigues and a leather jacket covered in pockets. From the bulges, Mox could tell some of them were full. No sign of nerves on her face, eyes strong and focused. Phyla wasn't a rookie. Mox shook her hand. “That's one hell of a suit you got there. Bet it didn't come cheap.”
&nbs
p; “Hear you're hiring,” Mox replied.
“Have to make it through tonight first,” Davin said. “Let's go.”
Mox led them into the building. When Phyla said she'd scoped it, she'd hacked into the building’s systems. The ones that were left, anyway. She could see some hallways, could pick up high noise levels. Could even listen in on rooms, remnants of old recording networks meant for conferences. That's how she found Ryder, and now it was Mox's job to take him out. The elevators had long since stopped working, so Mox led them towards the stairs at the end of the floor. The inside of the Starlight’s Refuge wasn't much better than the out, its carpets rotted and tearing, any artwork long since destroyed or stolen. But the lights stayed on. Most of the doors still locked. The essentials remained.
“So what's your story?” Phyla asked as they went up the stairs.
“Centurion,” Mox replied.
Silence for a moment.
“He doesn't talk much,” Davin said.
“Fine by me,” Phyla said. “You talk enough for everyone.”
Third floor gave away its occupant by sound alone. Standing on the landing, the wide open hallway door braced by a shadow gray moon rock, Mox could hear Ryder's voice. The man was yelling in the tones of a rallying cry. His exclamations furious and full of spit. Shouts followed each claim but it wasn't the roar of the crowd, no, more the calls of a few devoted followers.
“We go slow,” Mox said. “I go in, head straight for him. You cover me.”
Phyla and Davin nodded, both pulled sidearms from holsters on their waists. Mox would've reached for a gun, but he didn't have one. Wouldn't need one either. The exoskeleton reminded him of its existence through pain, the possibility of power. It was there with every movement he took. The knowledge that if he focused, pressed a little harder, the suit would go into action and launch him towards the room. Towards the man who'd killed so many.