Moon City

by Benjamin Kane Ethridge

“Who killed your dad, huh? Who did it?”

  Almond pupils fixed on him. Not sorrow. Just a profound question inside them.

  The phone chirped.

  The results were in.

  * * *

  Dean tried Tasha several times before she picked up. He hadn’t bothered to leave a message because Tasha never listened to them and made him repeat everything over in detail. He once told her to “Just listen to the message and get back to me,” and she said, without pause, “Pretend I listened to it. Now explain it to me all over again.” The young-faced ancient never lost an opportunity to make Dean fully aware of how busy she was and how grateful he should be when she turned her attention on him and his problems.

  “So,” she said and crunched on something, “your people should arrive today at some point. They will be meeting you at the apartment complex lobby. I got to tell you though, our budget is near exhausted now. If you expect to get Golden Transport out of there, it’ll be your only way back. Any other mishaps at the membrane station and you’ll be stuck there at Moon City for at least six months Earth time. We won’t be able even to afford standard transport. There just are no other funds. The Zetú war has gobbled up all our resources in this quarter.” She paused and added, “To a scary level. There are dangers outside the Grettish War Council. Terrorists are seizing ships and executing Zetú in horrifying numbers.”

  Dean was caught off guard. He couldn’t even process this new information about his Zetú friends. It had misdirected him, and instead, he found himself feebly asking, “Wait, so Golden Transport isn’t more reliable?”

  “No. It’s the same technology, but with interference, it can fail, just as standard transport failed you yesterday. Golden just sidesteps all relative time continuums. It was an attempt at time travel that ultimately didn’t succeed, but it does alter a human’s physiognomy.”

  Which is why you’re an adult in a child’s body…

  “I can smell the wood burning, Dean. Other than your profound discernment over me being an old bat who hasn’t had her period yet, why not tell me why you’ve called? Repeatedly. I assumed it was the support I’m sending?”

  “It’s not.”

  “We haven’t discovered anything new about who sabotaged the membrane chamber.”

  “It’s not that either, but let me know when you find something.”

  “Okay, can you just tell me what the hell this is about?” Crunch. Crunch. “Sorry. Pretzels.”

  Dean took a swallow of the smelly black-moss air and gagged a little. He looked forward to rooming at another location. Hopefully, if it smelled only half as bad as this place, he’d be happy. “I… ran a blood test. I believe the Moon City Killer was here last night and killed a drug addict outside my shack—room.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I ran a test of some blood I found—the victim stabbed whomever it was attacking him. I ran it through our system. Borderon came up with no definable human results. Most of the DNA profile is Deitii. The system doesn’t track that alien species, so there’s no way to tie it to one of them.”

  “The Moon City Killer’s body is obviously changing at the DNA level.”

  “But why would he kill this man? It doesn’t make sense. It’s a waste of his time, frankly.”

  “I don’t know, but speaking of a waste of time, see you later, Dean.”

  “Tasha, wait I—”

  His cell phone beeped as the call ended. Dean choked on what he wanted to call her and settled for mumbling, “brat,” before putting his phone away. The next few minutes he gathered his sparse belongings. The reg police had shown up promptly after he informed the tavern owner about the murder, but the responding officer chose to have a few beers and flirt with the long-legged, big-bosomed brunette Noggin who haunted the table near the window, at least as long as Dean had been here (which felt forever). He had no idea when the officer would finally come up here to take care of Chipper’s corpse, but he didn’t want to wait any longer to get out of this foul-smelling slice of hell.

  Butterball the cat raced up to Dean as he stepped around the body, shifting a backpack of all his items to his other shoulder. The cat meowed and glanced up at him, askance.

  “What?” Dean demanded.

  The cat nosed at Chipper’s satchel and turned its face again to Dean. A long, almost inaudible meow followed.

  “Going back to your safe place?”

  Butterball flew toward him. Dean stiffened. The cat rubbed against his leg, and then hurried back to the satchel. Nosed it again.

  “You want back inside? There’s nothing in there.”

  Meow. Meow. Meoooooow.

  “No, no, no, no, no.” Dean waved his hands. “I’ll tell everyone in the tavern about you, Butterdick, but I ain’t taking you with me. Somebody will look after you.”

  The almond pupils fixed on him, seeming in disbelief.

  “Ease up, damn you. I’m allergic.”

  Meow.

  “I have to do something about my Zetú friends before they’re all executed by the Grettish terrorists.”

  Meow.

  “I’ve got to figure out how to kill somebody who is superhuman.”

  Meow.

  “I’ve got to get back to the love of my life before she writes me off and forgets me forever.”

  There was no other meow, just a penetrating stare.

  Dean looked around for a moment and shook his head, never remembering being so soft, and for the last possible species in the universe. “Okay, get in, climb aboard, Butterdick.”

  He leaned over and opened the satchel. The cat looked back as though to ask, “Is this what you want?”

  “Get the hell in there before I change my mind.”

  Butterball darted inside and merrily made cat noises. Dean picked up the satchel, heavy with the animal, and slung it over his other shoulder. He had no inkling as to what in the hell had gone wrong with him, but he just accepted that the animal was his to care for now, until he could pawn it off to some non-allergic soul who actually liked cats.

  As he left that horrible tavern though, he had to admit, it felt good to have somebody along for this ride. Especially since it might be his last.

  * * *

  After all the fuss about fingerprint signatures and documenting who he worked for, Dean was standing in the apartment that had belonged to his friend Rick Agate. The two-room apartment wasn’t much to speak of, and the front door’s knob had to be thoroughly wrenched on to open up, but it was leagues beyond the shack he’d just departed.

  The first thing he did was toss an old can of baked beans into the incinerator. They weren’t that powerful smelling, but Dean was certain that bacteria would find a home in their barbecued-cradled glaze before too long. Didn’t matter if you were on a planet, moon, meteor, or asteroid—bacteria ruled. He would always fear and respect every colony of the microbugs.

  And hate them for their disease and their smell.

  He went to activate the incinerator and then thought against it. There were probably more things to burn and he only wanted to deal with the stench once, because his stomach was in sour knots right now.

  Butterball ran into the bedroom. Dean didn’t feel like exploring just yet, so he sat on the couch and looked at his phone. Maybe just looking at his newsfeed and Facebook would relax him to the point where he could start thinking about what to do next. He hoped these other “support” people didn’t show up before he figured what that was.

  His finger slid up the newsfeed. Limbus had neural interface where you could just mentally scroll through the feeds, but that was too creepy for him. He opted to keep his phone and do Internet surfing and social media lurking like the rest of his generation. Sandra was the same way.

  Should I call her?

  Dean checked his watch. It had been more than a day since they last spoke. She hadn’t even sent him a text message.

  Something is wrong.

  He went to message her, but just before he could close out t
he intergalactic news feed, he saw it.

  GRETTISH TERROR GROUP WASWAS has posted the latest Zetú slave execution.

  A blond woman who looked like Washington, DC Barbie explained that “several ships had been taken, and it was debatable at this time if those ships had not been under the protection of All-Galaxies, Limbus, Inc., and Wewato LLC.”

  Dean tried not to blink as he watched as they ran footage of a Zetú slave having his limbs cut off. He was relieved it wasn’t his friend Finny-Min, but the relief didn’t quiet his horror or his disgust. He thought to call Sandra, but decided he needed to get his head on straight first. She didn’t like weakness, even though she told him he could show her anything he was feeling.

  None of that mattered. He loved her, but it was a shot in the dark right now that he’d ever get to see her again. He needed to stay focused and get this job done. If he could get rid of this Moon City Killer and get the Golden Transport back (and it didn’t screw up during transfer), that would mean everything. He might even be able to talk Sandra into marrying his sorry ass. He almost wanted to call and tell her the possibility existed that he could be back as soon as this mission was over and not decades later. But getting her hopes up for something that might not happen would only make the outcome so much worse, and she’d also be terrified for his life because she knew him for what he was… He’d killed thousands of cows and many more aliens to boot, but he’d never been considered an assassin or a mercenary or a hired killer. He had his “victims” brought to him, more or less.

  The Moon City Killer would not walk up to him like a stunned cow. He would not stagger into his own gruesome death out of stupidity and trust. This was beyond Dean’s range.

  But he had to figure it out.

  Scratch.

  Scratch. Scratch.

  He turned to notice the Noggin’s cat had taken an interest in the incinerator. It was scratching at the handle. It must have smelled some old food in there. Dean resolved he’d have to run the thing before heading out again. The cat would have to be the unfortunate one to bear the smell of burning old garbage. But it was a necessity; there weren’t any landfills on this rock.

  The cat stood on its hind legs and proceeded to paw more fiercely.

  “Cut it out,” Dean said and went to toe the cat away. “You’re gonna get yourself toasted.”

  The cat turned its streaked orange-black face at him and meowed.

  “Issues?” he asked with a laugh. “Guess you’re hungry. Let’s see what our friend Rick bought at the market.”

  Dean ventured into the small kitchen and pulled open a few empty cabinets before finding a few stacks of canned food. Spam. Black olives. And purple sword fish. Each can’s label had the same gaudy text affixed beneath, CONSTALIFE infused!

  “Only the best from your nearest terra cannery.”

  Dean found a clean bowl in the cupboard below the sink and went about serving up Butterball’s dinner. Once Dean set it down, the cat happily gobbled up the lavender chunks of swordfish. Dean’s eyes began to itch and water. He let out a tremendous sneeze into his wrist. “Gotta find you a new place, hombre, before you’re the death of me. For now though, I’ll leave you to your grub.”

  A text came in through his phone. He hurriedly went over to check it out, thinking it might be Sandra.

  It was Tasha.

  head to Stone Root Ale House. its the last place rick surveyed killer.

  Dean hated texting but he thumb-typed a brief reply of compliance.

  car was fueled last night + transported to the lot outside your hotel. your two support techs should arrive hotel late afternoon.

  Dean gave his thanks but hardly felt like it. He needed support now, not forty-eight hours later or whenever the hell this place considered afternoon to be afternoon. At least he had the car back though, and the luxury of it actually having some fuel.

  He grabbed his weapon, stuffed it in the back of his pants, and pulled his shirt over it.

  “Stay away from that incinerator,” he sternly told the cat, who ignored him. He grabbed the door knob and it took a bit of wiggling for it to disengage before he could open the door. “Only the best for Limbus directors,” he muttered with a wet sniffle (CAT infused!).

  They left the car exactly where he’d envisioned it would be left, parked as far from the front of the hotel as possible. Dean didn’t mind the walk, however. It felt good to stretch his legs. His stomach was growling and his nose was all snotty from the cat. Other than those elements and being lovesick for Sandra, he foresaw another absolute shit day on this Moon City colony. He got into the car and it started up without any issues though, so he couldn’t complain about his ride. For now at least.

  His GPS located the Stone Root Ale House only three miles from the hotel. Most of Moon City’s citizens had already tucked into their jobs by this time, so the streets were virtually empty.

  The Stone Root Ale House could not be missed. A carefully hewn stone façade shaped like an enormous oak tree loomed above all the other smaller shanty establishments surrounding it. Dean parked alongside the curb, sneezed violently, and killed the engine.

  After locking up the car, he headed through the open portal in the front of the tree shape. Stairs led down to a soft, orange glow. The walls inside had more sculpted stone configurations, these of twisting roots of various size and length. It must have taken years to craft it all. The descent wasn’t as impressive, however; after about twenty stairs, Dean had reached the floor of the tavern.

  Many of the chairs were still put up on the high-top black tables. A few people hunched over the bar, one smoking a cigar and the other chatting about something on the e-pad they shared between them. Dean decided to sit a few stools away but not look like he was being completely anti-social.

  The bartender was a large, bald man in a green apron. From the sweat on his brow, he looked like he was finishing a shift, not just starting one.

  “How ya?” he asked.

  “I’m good. Good. How… are you?” Dean stumbled awkwardly, never certain about formalities.

  “I’m fat and sweaty,” the bartender deadpanned.

  Dean cracked a smile and then went into business mode. “I had a friend of mine come in here not too long ago, asking about the Deitii abduction—”

  “No you didn’t.”

  “Excuse me—?”

  “Until you buy some breakfast and a drink, you didn’t know nobody, and I sure as hell didn’t know nothing about no Deitii. We paging here?”

  Dean pressed his lips together. His stomach growled as though to confirm this was an opportunity to kill two birds with one stone and then devour them.

  “Sure, what’s for breakfast around here?” he asked.

  “We got steak hash and eggs.”

  “Lovely. I’ll have it. With coffee.”

  “No coffee, or tea. Just alcohol.”

  “Eh, water?”

  “It’s used for cleaning cups that serve the alcohol.”

  “Can I just have water?”

  “Can I just forget about that Deitii pal of yours?”

  Dean winced. “Understood. Just breakfast then.”

  “Wrong answer.”

  “Shit, man, I don’t drink this early.”

  “Now you do,” said the bartender with a malicious grin. “And I think you want our most pricey, all-bells and whistles cocktail.”

  “Wonderful, bring it on. What’s it called?”

  “Its name changes from patron to patron.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yup,” the bartender slid back and yelled through the kitchen window. “One breakfast!”

  Dean could hear the cook grunt and the clatter of pans being withdrawn from cupboards. The bartender grabbed several bottles and began mixing up a drink without much ceremony. Dean watched, feigning interest as the bartender finished up and dropped one ice cube in the concoction. The dark caramel-colored drink was set before him and he immediately noticed a slight whirlpool in the center whe
re the ice cube spun. The perpetual motion wasn’t natural and he eyed it more closely. “Why’s it doing that?”

  “Double dose of Constalife in there, with Malo Macho Tequila—which is made from the prickly pears of our one and only succulent that grows here in Moon City.”

  “Is that what gives it this color?”

  “No, that’s the Dr. Pepper I added.”

  “Ah,” said Dean and lifted the glass. “And what is this called that I’m drinking?”

  “The Limbus Asshole.”

  Dean snickered. So, either he stood out like a sore thumb or this bartender wasn’t as dense as he looked. He lifted the drink in cheers. “Many happy returns,” he said and took a sip. It wasn’t half bad. A bit too tequila-ish for his tastes, but not bad.

  “So let’s talk about the other night.”

  “Let’s talk about it after your breakfast and all of your drink.”

  Dean swallowed down his bitterness for this man and sighed through his teeth. “Absolutely.”

  Thankfully, his food showed up not too long after. It was surprisingly rich and satisfying. The potatoes and onions were not greasy and they were seasoned with something like thyme, but with a uniqueness of its own. He didn’t venture to ask where they got steak on this moon—he’d worked in slaughterhouses before and even from the best sources he couldn’t think too much about it without feeling the draw to vegetables and fruit. It was all tasty though and his stomach rejoiced at having something solid inside it.

  He downed the drink, just to get it over with, and hissed at the strength of it.

  The bartender came back over after fixing a few beers for the e-pad patrons. “Wow. You were thirsty! Care for another?”

  “You know I don’t.”

  The man dropped the bill near Dean and leaned in, lowering his voice. “So I can’t tell you too much, not that I wouldn’t, but that I was pretty busy that night. The Deitii, the Killer, and the bounty hunter were all here that night.”

  “I already knew that.”

  “Did you know that several folks said the Killer smelled like burning smoke? Like hickory wood?”