Chapter 31 The first Moonlander
Matt stood near the door with his pistol hanging low at his side, breathing through his nose hard enough to flare it slightly every few seconds. Orin leaned against the terminal with one shoulder. Tasha still had one hand pressed against the edge of the desk. Her slender fingers had gone pale from the pressure.
Her head turned toward me as I glanced away.
Garron lifted his head slightly and slid two fingers through his thick moustache before wiping blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his wrist. His breathing had settled into something shallow.
I crossed the room toward the supply crates stacked beside the wall. The crates were old transit containers stamped with faded route numbers and rusting security seals from years ago. I found a restraint cable beneath a thermal blanket, pulled it free, and returned to Garron.
Matt watched me fasten the cable around Garron's wrists while pointing his gun at Tasha. "You were ready to die keeping him alive two hours ago," he said quietly.
I tightened the restraint. "Two hours ago I thought this ended with prison."
"And now?"
I pulled the cable harder and stood up. "Now I think he can burn all of us with him."
Matt's eyes narrowed. "So you chose yourself."
"No," I said. "I chose us."
Garron opened his eyes again and looked up at me through strands of damp hair hanging across his forehead. "Survival starts sounding a lot like betrayal after a while. Doesn't it?”
Nobody spoke.
He smiled weakly through split lips before dropping his head down.
Tasha pushed herself off the terminal and moved toward the door. Orin followed without a word. Matt stepped beside Garron while I pulled him carefully upright. His injured leg immediately buckled beneath him and his shoulder slammed into my chest before he caught himself. He exhaled sharply through his teeth but refused help for a second longer than necessary. I pushed Garron out the door, while Matt still held his gun pointing between Tasha and Orin. “Wait! Da vinci! You don't have to—” Matt shut the door behind us.
The maintenance corridors above felt newer than the other part of the dome. Yet pipes ran low enough overhead on the pavement that Matt had to duck beneath several of them, and condensation dripped steadily from the ceiling onto the flooring below. Emergency lighting had stabilized into a weak amber glow that left the edges of the corridors in shadow. The air smelled strongly of lubricant, and hot wiring.
Every few minutes a security drone passed somewhere overhead through the ventilation shafts. Their scan beams cut through the gaps in the metal grates above us in pale white lines before vanishing again.
Matt stepped closer. "Are we really doing this?"
"Yes."
"I fucking hate the F.L.A as much as you do, but—”
“Keep moving.” I said, walking forward.
Garron walked slowly between Matt and me. Blood smeared behind him whenever his boots dragged across the grating. Several times his leg failed completely and one of us caught him before he collapsed. He thanked us every time we caught him smiling faintly.
Garron stumbled once more before we crossed into the next sector.
"I could really use a hot tea," I said.
Matt looked at me sideways. "Now?"
"Been thinking about it for a while actually."
Garron made a sound between a laugh and a cough.
The riots sounded thinner now. Most of the streets had emptied into apartment blocks and transit shelters, leaving only scattered shouting echoing through the sectors. Garron and I stopped. Matt stepped closer to the edge of the wall and listened. Somewhere beyond the pipes overhead came the faint mechanical buzz of patrol drones.
"Route changed," Matt muttered. "We go up."
The rooftop hatch opened with a violent burst of cold air. Matt climbed through first. I followed behind Garron and immediately stopped once I reached the surface. The city stretched beneath us in every direction.
From inside the districts the Moon always felt compressed, crowded corridors, market tunnels, transit sectors packed with bodies. From the rooftops it became enormous. Structures extended across the dome as far as visibility allowed, their exteriors glowing under artificial lighting. The gaps between rooftops would have been impossible under Earth gravity, or in the rich districts.
In the far distance, below us a plaza overflowed with people. Thousands packed shoulder-to-shoulder while armed security drones struggled to hold formation. Workers in mining uniforms shoved against barriers. Children sat on top of cargo railings while adults lifted illegal recording devices above their heads to film the unrest. Every few seconds the crowd shifted violently as pressure moved through it.
“Seems like people are still out.” I murmured.
“By force.” Garron replied.
Garron climbed out behind us and paused near the edge of the roof. Frost-covered wind pulled at his coat while floodlights from nearby sectors washed pale light across his face. He looked across the dome for a long time.
"They used to tell us Earth built all this for humanity," he said quietly. He looked up at the people. "It all fell apart anyway."
Matt took his arm again and we continued.
Low gravity made every step feel easy across the rooftops, especially near the edges where the weaker artificial gravity fields shifted against the lunar pull beneath them.
We crossed three buildings on the second floor's rooftop. Garron slipped crossing the second. His boot lost traction on the metal and his injured leg folded sideways beneath him. He dropped hard onto one knee with a sound that barely escaped his throat before Matt caught him by the shoulder. Fresh blood spread through the bandages wrapped around his thigh. For a second Garron stayed there, breathing hard.
He pushed himself back upright without making a sound. We continued across the rooftops while searchlights swept the districts below us. Whenever one passed too close we pressed against the walls of the higher floors until they were gone.
At the fourth street I guided us down through an interior maintenance shaft. The ladder rungs vibrated faintly beneath our weight.
Matt wiped condensation from his forehead with the back of his sleeve while Garron leaned briefly against the wall beside the entrance door, breathing through his nose as his nostrils widened with each inhale.
We started moving again. Inside the building, the electromagnetic fields strengthened noticeably. My knees felt heavier halfway up the tower. Garron grabbed the railing tightly leaning on it, climbing one stair at a time.
When the doors opened the contrast was immediate. Warm air rolled across us. Soft golden lighting illuminated walls made from actual imported wood instead of polymer paneling. The grain patterns were uneven and natural. Real plants stood inside ceramic containers near the windows, their leaves glossy beneath concealed moisture.
Somewhere in the suite quiet music played from hidden speakers. Old Earth strings barely audible beneath the distant hum of the city. The floor beneath our boots no longer rattled.
A small window overlooked the districts below. And inside this room sat untouched bottles of imported alcohol beside crystal glasses filled with melting ice.
Matt stared around the suite once. "Fuck, this place doesn't get old," he muttered.
Sera stood near the window with her hands behind her back. She turned as we entered.
An aide immediately approached her carrying a tablet. She raised one hand slightly without looking at him and he stopped moving.
Her eyes settled on Garron. A quiet second passed. "This is what happens when you escape from my warm suite," she said.
Garron wiped blood from his chin with the side of his thumb. "Well, I had to try for myself."
She ignored the remark. "Crowd estimates?"
The aide activated the tablet. "Eight hundred confirmed across dome three, and around fifty here. Mining shifts are collapsing in the outer rings. Internal communications were leaked to public relays twenty minutes ago."
Sera's expression didn't change. "How visible is the execution now?"
The aide hesitated. "Unfortunately, very visible."
Beyond the window another wave moved through the plaza below. Security floodlights swept across banners rising above the crowd. Sera looked back at Garron. "Move the schedule forward by a few hours. Regardless, we have orders to do this tonight."
The aide nodded quickly and left.
Silence settled across the suite. I walked closer to the window. From this floor the city looked fractured. Sera stepped beside me. "You did well," she said.
She rested one hand lightly against the glass. "History only remembers outcomes," she continued. "Not motives."
The plaza below had started thinning.
"Remember that tonight."
Garron gave a weak laugh behind us. "You used to believe in something better," he said.
Sera finally looked at him directly. "No," she replied. "I believed some sacrifices were smaller than others."
Her eyes shifted toward the security officers waiting beside the suite entrance. "Take him."
The execution chamber occupied the outer wall of the dome. The vaulted ceiling rose high overhead beneath layers of reinforced composite and steel support beams. The chamber was dark, empty of anything but the Lunar dust scattered beneath their boots. Two Security officers lined the chamber walls on each side in black vac suits.
The upper gallery was packed. People had left their homes just to watch. Workers in stained mining uniforms stood shoulder-to-shoulder against office personnel still wearing identification tags from interrupted shifts. Children sat on railings while exhausted parents held them steady with one arm. Condensation had begun forming against the reinforced viewing glass from the heat of the crowd pressing forward. Several people were recording secretly.
The giant screens above the gallery displayed the lunar surface outside the dome in sharp monochrome detail, with endless pale dust beneath industrial floodlights.
The automated announcement system activated overhead.
Convicted insurgent General Garron, of Med-Nochtia. Charged with sedition, terrorism, and destabilization against Earth administrative authority. Sentence authorized under Med-Nochtian emergency provision. Moonlander execution confirmed.
The voice sounded calm like it had announced cargo schedules earlier that same day. Nobody moved. Even the children had stopped talking as Garron walked toward the airlock without assistance. I still don't know how. His leg had almost completely stopped functioning by then. Matt had been supporting most of his weight through the final corridors leading into the chamber, but the moment security officers approached to take him he straightened and moved forward alone.
Every step looked painful and slower than the last. Regardless, he kept moving.
A security officer removed the restraints at the airlock threshold while another read procedural statements from a handheld tablet. Garron ignored both of them.
I stood beside Matt near the observation glass. Matt rubbed his thumb repeatedly against the grip of his pistol.
The inner airlock sealed, and warning lights flashed red across the chamber walls while pressure systems hissed through hidden vents overhead. Thin streams of vapor escaped briefly around the outer hatch seals.
The countdown began.
I turned my antique watch over to check the seconds. Ten. Nine. Eight…
Garron took a deep breath.
Nobody in the gallery moved. Garron stood beneath the floodlights outside the dome with Earth hanging enormous above him through the black void. The outer hatch opened and the vacuum took him instantly.
He collapsed sideways onto the lunar dust as the door sealed shut behind him, the low gravity turning the fall slow and unnatural. Pale grey particles burst upward around him and drifted through the floodlights before settling again. Outside the dome there was no sound at all.
Inside the gallery someone covered a child's eyes.
Garron's body convulsed once. Then again. Blood vessels darkened beneath his skin. His movements became jerky and unfocused while his lungs fought against emptiness.
Nobody behind the glass spoke.
Then Garron moved.
Slowly, dragging himself across the lunar surface. A murmur spread through the gallery. Workers pushed closer against the barrier glass. Security officers turned toward each other while voices crackled through their radios. On the screens above us Garron continued crawling beneath the floodlights, leaving a dark trail through the pale dust.
Forty meters from the platform sat a damaged maintenance locker partially buried in regolith. The casing had ruptured during earlier unrest and equipment had spilled across the surface. Among it lay an emergency respirator.
Garron saw it changing direction immediately.
In low gravity his body lurched forward in uneven slow-motion, dust hanging around him longer than it should have. Dust lifted around him with every motion and settled slowly. Halfway there he collapsed completely. A woman near the front of the gallery gasped loudly. Someone hit the glass with both hands. Security radios erupted all at once.
Garron's long fingers twitched a couple times. Then he dragged himself forward again.
His hand closed around the respirator. He fumbled it once. Twice. Finally forced it against his face. His entire body seized violently as partial oxygen flooded back into collapsing lungs.
The gallery exploded.
People screamed and the children cried. Boots hammered against the metal flooring while workers shoved against the barrier line hard enough to shake the reinforced glass.
"He's alive!"
The shout came from somewhere near the middle rows. On the screens Garron began dragging himself again toward the maintenance hatch built into the platform base. Security officers received orders through their earpieces. One officer near the maintenance controls froze with his hand hovering over the override panel.
"Open it!" Someone said.
Someone threw a work helmet against the glass. Others started screaming the same thing.
Garron kept moving across the dust. The officer looked back toward the gallery. Hundreds of people stared at him. Then he opened the hatch.
The chamber descended into chaos.
Barrier lines collapsed beneath crowd pressure while security teams pushed forward through bodies packed too tightly to move efficiently. People climbed over seats and railings trying to reach the viewing glass. Illegal recordings flooded onto public networks before the systems could suppress them.
On the screens above us maintenance workers dragged Garron through the hatch just before tactical teams reached the lower corridor.
Matt stared upward at the display. "Holy shit," he whispered.
The gallery shook beneath hundreds of moving bodies.
The following morning the Moon had split in half. Earth administration broadcasts called the incident extremist propaganda and repeated Garron's charges continuously across every public channel. The footage was cut carefully to avoid showing the crowd reaction. Commentators spoke in calm measured voices about security failures and terrorist influence.
Mining shifts across the outer rings stopped entirely. Since the morning. Workers gathered in the plaza instead of reporting to sector lines. And everywhere the same name spread through the stations.
The First Moonlander.
I heard it first from two maintenance workers speaking quietly beside a transport corridor. By afternoon it had reached the Lunarcast.
I was passing a public screen in the transit corridor when I heard it. The anchor was mid-sentence, reading from a prepared statement about security failures and administrative review, his voice carrying a flat professional calm. Then he paused for a half-second and said:
"What some residents of Med-Nochtian domes are now calling The First Moonlander.”
Garron had told me I didn't understand who I was, but if I understood one thing, it was not knowing who Garron was.