The landing wasn't pretty.
With a heavy thud that shook the floor, the Victory slammed into the concrete pad. The engines cut out, leaving a ringing silence behind.
"We're down," the ship's computer announced. "No air outside. High radiation."
For a second, the two hundred passengers in the main cabin sat frozen. Then, it hit them: They were alive. They were on the Moon. They were safe. A cheer went up. People tore at their seatbelts, crying and laughing. The discipline Captain Jason had enforced during the flight vanished instantly. They rushed towards the main airlock, a desperate crowd pushing against the hatch that separated them from what they thought was safety.
"Let us out! Open the door!"
"My brother is in Sector 4! I have to see him!"
Jason watched the monitors on the bridge with a cold detachment. He knew what was waiting outside. If he opened that door, these people wouldn't walk into a welcome center; they would walk into a kill zone run by the rebels.
"Hold them back," Jason ordered into his radio.
In the passenger cabin, a shadow blocked the light.
Marcus, the heavy weapons specialist, stepped in front of the airlock. He was six-foot-three and built like a tank. He didn't need a weapon to be scary. He just crossed his armored arms and became a wall.
"Move aside, soldier!" A young man in a suit pushed his way to the front, likely a rich person kid. He was sweaty, wearing glasses, and looked used to getting his way. "We paid for passage to the Base, not to be held prisoner on this ship! Open the damn door!"
Marcus looked down at him. "There's a vacuum out there, genius. You want to suffocate in three seconds, or wait for the docking tube?"
"Then connect the tube! Where are the rovers? Where is the ground crew?" The young man shouted, trying to shove past Marcus. It was like shoving a statue. "This is unacceptable! When I speak to the administration"
"The administration is dead," Marcus growled. His voice dropped to a rumble that cut through the noise. He leaned in, his faceplate inches from the man's nose. "You should know who built this place right? Death row inmates. Thousands of them. And right now, they're in charge."
Marcus gestured at the blast door behind him. "You think they're baking you a cake? They're waiting for fresh meat. You want to go out there and be the toy for a thousand convicts who haven't seen a woman or a rich kid in ten years? Be my guest."
The young man turned pale and stumbled back, the menacing reality finally piercing his entitlement.
The crowd hesitated, fear fighting with hysteria. But panic spreads fast. A woman in the back screamed, "He's lying! They just want to keep the supplies for themselves!"
The mob surged forward again. Logic was gone. They were scared animals trying to find a hole to hide in, and they would crush anyone to get there.
"They're going to break the door if they keep pushing," Vice-Captain Austin warned from the bridge. "Captain, we can't hold them back without hurting them."
Jason didn't wait any longer. He looked at the screaming faces on the monitor, the last of the human race, currently trying to commit suicide by being stupid. He stepped up to the inter-communication handset.
"Everyone, due to the chaos inside the base, we must carry out some missions," Jason lied, trying one last time to reason with them. "This will take about one to three days. For your safety, remain inside."
But the shouting only got louder.
"Plan B," Jason said, his voice flat. "Execute Plan B."
Austin nodded and typed a command into the environmental console.
Hiss.
White gas sprayed from the floorboards of the passenger cabin. It smelled sharp and chemical.
"What is th—" The young man coughed, his eyes rolling back in his head. He crumpled to the floor.
It happened in waves. The shouting turned to coughing, then to silence. Within thirty seconds, every passenger was unconscious, slumped in their seats or curled up on the deck.
"Knockout gas deployed," Austin reported, checking the vital signs. "They'll be out for twenty-four hours. Safe, quiet, and out of the line of fire."
"Good," Jason said. "Gear up. We're moving out."
As the squad pulled on their helmets and checked the seals, Austin laughed dryly over the communicator. "You know, Sir, back on Earth, gassing two hundred civilians would have sent us to prison. The lawsuits alone would have been a nightmare."
"On Earth, we had laws," Jason replied, locking his helmet into place. "But here, now no laws are left. Let's go."
The airlock cycled. The hiss of escaping air faded into the absolute silence of space.
The outer ramp lowered.
Jason stepped onto the surface of the Moon. The contrast was blinding. The ground was a harsh, bright white reflecting the sunlight, while the sky was an endless, terrifying black.
"Left clear," Shane called out.
"Right clear," Marcus said, stepping off the ramp.
Full of adrenaline and the sudden freedom from the cramped ship, Marcus pushed off the ground to take a position.
He forgot where he was.
On Earth, the push would have moved his huge frame a few feet. On the Moon, with low gravity, he launched twenty-five feet into the air, soaring over the heads of his squadmates.
"Whoa!" Marcus flailed, his arms windmilling against the thin air.
Because his weight was the same, his momentum didn't change. He couldn't stop. He arced through the vacuum and crashed face down into a pile of gray dirt, sending a slow-motion cloud of dust into the void.
"One Man down," Austin said over the radio, his voice deadpan. "Sniper got him, How tragic."
Laughter rippled through the squad channel.
"Get up, Marcus," Jason snapped, though he didn't suppress a smirk. "Listen to me, all of you. Low gravity doesn't mean you can fly. It means you have no traction. Your muscles are too strong for this environment."
Marcus scrambled up, dusting off his armor, his ego bruised more than his body.
"If you try to run like you're on Earth, you'll be floating targets," Jason said, using the moment to teach. "Keep your center of gravity low. Shuffle. Or hop. Do not try to fight hand-to-hand if you punch someone, the recoil will send you flying backward. Use your firearms."
"Understood," the squad said together, their humor replaced by focus.
They moved toward the base's service entrance, meters away. They adapted quickly, using a sliding, skipping walk that covered the ground fast.
As they approached the structure, the silence began to press in on them. A base with fifty thousand people should have had noise pumps, generators, vehicles.
But there was nothing. Just gray dust, the looming glass dome, and the red symbol of the Cult scrawled across the blast doors.