Lunar Tales - an anthology

CHAPTER 1

  It wasn’t much, but it was mine.

  After twenty years of chasing down the roughest, toughest, ugliest scum in the solar system, I was ready to just kick back and relax in peace.

  And this was where I intended to do it: forty-seven hectares of terraform on the westernmost outskirts of the Tranquility Range – right near the edge of the biodome where there’s still a decent view of Earth.

  Mature woods chock full of pine and madrone, rolling fields of wildflowers, even a decent sized stream zig-zagging through the property, ending in a secluded little pond I planned on stocking with trout.

  I’d earned this retirement, and I was ready for it.

  For real this time.

  I can’t count the number of times I got sucked into doing “just one more job” for the Lunar Collective Government.

  My contact at the LCG, Dominicus Black, always managed to convince me to come back – to put off retirement – to track down one more piece of slime the LCG couldn’t manage to keep incarcerated.

  In fact, Black had called me three times on my way here today.

  I ignored all three calls.

  I was not going to let him, the LCG, or anyone else spoil this day – the day I finally set foot on my own quiet little corner of the solar system.

  The idea was to just hike around the property, getting a good feel for the place, find the ideal spot to build my home. The holovisuals at the Mercator Tract Vending Agency gave me a nice preview of the place, but there’s nothing like slipping on a pair of boots and getting the lay of the land – the views, the sounds, the smells.

  I took a deep breath and stepped out of my truck. The air was chilly, and I buttoned up my jacket. I took my earbud out and left it on the seat – I didn’t want to receive another call from Black. Even ignoring the call, it would disturb my perfect moment.

  I stretched my tired limbs and walked up to the plasteel entry gate and punched in my keycode, making a mental note that I wanted to replace this gate with something more rustic.

  I’d also replace this antiquated security system with a biometric scanner.

  Form and function.

  As I pushed the gate open to step in, I spotted a handwritten note on the ground, held in place by a gray baseball-sized rock.

  Rufus Quince – you may have paid for this land, but you will never possess it. Find another place to go and die. Or die here a lot sooner than you’d planned.

  It was unsigned.

  And I was unimpressed.

  I’d made a lot of enemies in my career as a bounty hunter – I’d been shot, threatened, even tortured by a few mean pieces of work. Crap like this was dime-a-dozen fare in my line of work. Always someone trying to get an angle, get my goat, or get even.

  I stepped inside the gate, and an explosion at my feet threw me into the air. I landed roughly on the hood of my truck, my back slamming into the sheet metal with a bone-crunching thud that knocked the wind out of me.

  A shower of dirt clods and pebbles rained down around me, bouncing off the truck.

  My head pounded and my ears rang as I sat up and brushed myself off.

  A lifter mine.

  Designed not to be lethal, but to toss its victim like a ragdoll and send a clear message: keep out.

  Keep out of my own home?

  I think not.

  Whoever these creeps were – they were messing with the wrong man.