Deputized

With no cops on the Moon, a murder must be investigated by the only people who couldn't have done it.

Photo by Mario Verduzco on Unsplash

This story is a sequel to Wildcatter.

Dust billowed as the hopper descended toward Leonov Base’s landing pad. Anthony’s hands hovered over the controls, but the flight computer cut thrust at the moment of touchdown. Now Anthony and Svetla were only feeling the Moon’s gravity, not the full gee of deceleration.

“Dmitri said he’d be waiting for us,” said Svetla as they walked toward the base’s airlock. “Where is he?”

“Maybe he’s cycling the airlock.” Anthony stopped walking.

There was a spacesuit lying in the shadows before the airlock. It was one of the modern ones, tight to the skin, not like the early Orban models with the huge backpacks. The shoulder blades were clearly visible. As was the knife hilt between them. The chest wasn’t moving.

Svetla said a Russian word, one of the nasty ones she’d refused to tell him the meaning of.

“We’d better take some pictures,” said Anthony. There was a camera built into the wrist of his NASA-made suit. He made a half-circle around the suit, snapping a dozen images.

There were no footprints to disturb. The hopper’s rocket exhaust had blown away any dust on the landing pad. There were bright scratches on the helmet and knife hilt where particles in the exhaust had scratched them.

“Check who it is,” said Svetla. She was hanging back.

Anthony lifted the spacesuit to its side, letting them see the face inside the clear helmet.

Dmitri Omarov. Leader of the bratva—mafia—at the Russian moon base. The man they were here to trade with. Looking very dead and very angry about it.

“Damn. Someone beat me to it,” said Svetla.

“Let’s not be admitting motive for the murder,” said Anthony. He’d read enough detective novels to know what to avoid.

“Do you think anyone here doesn’t have a motive for killing him? Do you think anyone doesn’t know my motive?”

“Point.”

Anthony didn’t like thinking about how Dmitri had forced Svetla into sex slavery when she’d arrived on the Moon, and later traded her to Anthony in exchange for a load of thorium ore. It had worked out well for them in the end, but the start of their relationship had been tense and uncomfortable. He would have refused the deal, except that Dmitri would have murdered her rather than take her back.

She sighed. “Let’s tell the commander.”

They cycled through the airlock. Once inside, Svetla pressed the intercom button and said, “Commander Artemyev to Airlock One, please. This is an emergency.”

Anthony actually understood all of that. She’d been tutoring him in Russian for months now.

Artemyev arrived in a few minutes. He was tall, fit, and iron haired, looking like a Slavic example of the Right Stuff except for the dour expression on his face. “Hello, Svetla. Good to see you again. What’s the emergency?”

“Dmitri is dead.”

The Russian commander must be a good poker player. His face went stiff for a moment, then resumed its usual look. “You know this how?”

“He’s right outside this airlock with a knife stuck through his suit. He was there when we landed.”

“That changes things here.” He switched to English. “Pardon me—you must be her American.” He offered a hand to Anthony.

Svetla said, “Mikhail Levovitch, please meet my husband, Anthony Frankovitch.”

“Good to meet you, sir. Congratulations. And congratulations to you, Svetla Ivanovna.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Now for the dirty part.” Artemyev pulled a spacesuit from a locker and donned it.

The airlock was big enough for them to all go through at once.

Anthony and Svetla stayed in the open airlock while Artemyev examined the body. “What caused these scratches?”

“The hopper exhaust has hot aluminum oxide chunks.”

“I see.” The commander stood. “That proves you two didn’t do it. Which makes you only people here I can say that about. I am deputizing you both to investigate the murder.”

The two visitors pivoted to look at each other. Anthony nodded. Svetla returned the nod, then faced Artemyev. She switched to Russian. “We do not work for you, Mikhail Levovitch.”

“I am willing to hire you. For a reasonable rate.”

The bargaining became too fast for Anthony to follow. They settled on an hourly rate for the investigation, not in rubles.

“Do you recognize the knife?” asked Anthony in English.

Artemyev chuckled. “Of course. Standard Army issue. There must be a dozen of them in the base. I have one myself.”

“And where were you when the murder happened?”

“I’ve been in my office for the past three hours, working on report. I guess I have no—how do you say alibi in English?”

“It’s still alibi,” said Svetla.

“We’re all word thieves.”

Anthony asked, “We’ll want to see the records for airlock usage and all the video for the airlock and the corridor.”

“There aren’t any.”

“What?” Anthony was sincerely shocked. NASA insisted on continuous coverage of all key areas, though because of safety worries rather than security.

“The bratva—” Artemyev waved at Dmitri’s body “—did not want anyone monitoring their activities. So they disabled such things.”

Anthony cursed.

Svetla said, “What’s next, mystery fan?”

“We’ll have to have the doctor determine the time of death. Then interview everyone to see if they have alibis or saw something.”

The two traders unsuited. Svetla carefully transferred her dart guns from the pockets of the pressure suit to the ones of her jumpsuit. Anthony followed her example.

The forty person base had one doctor and one nurse to tend to them. Neither showed surprise at the news of Dmitri’s death. The doctor sent a couple of younger men from the science labs to collect the corpse.

“Now, my dear, when was your last medical exam?” asked Dr. Belousov.

Svetla gave him a wry smile. “You gave it to me.”

“I see. You’re overdue for one, then. And you, sir? When did you last see a doctor?”

“Longer than that,” admitted Anthony.

The exams went well, verifying they were both in good health. The doctor was outraged when neither could produce a current radiation exposure badge.

Anthony explained, “I ran out months ago.”

“Dmitri didn’t even let me bring mine,” added Svetla.

“How can you operate on the Moon without such a basic instrument?”

Anthony shrugged. “Right now I’m just working with what I can make or barter for. I can’t make them.”

“Fine.” Dr. Belousov took two clip-on badges from a drawer. “Wear these. Come back in two months. Bring something in trade.”

Anthony agreed. It was amazing the difference the hopper made. Instead of having to coordinate a flight to another base through two national agencies on Earth, he could just go where he wanted.

The helpers placed Dmitri’s body on one of the sickbay beds. It went face down. They hadn’t removed the knife.

The doctor sliced open the spacesuit to begin his autopsy. “Knife went into the heart. The killer must have known what he was doing. This took a lot of force. He probably had his arm around Dmitri to hold him while the knife went in. Dmitri died instantly.”

The nurse had taken the spacesuit’s computer. “The biomonitoring data is complete. He died at 1428 Moscow time.”

Less than fifteen minutes before they landed.

“Where were you then?” Anthony asked her.

“Here, with him.” She waved at Dr. Belousov. “We were treating a rash on Anton. Anton Tsivilyov. He’s a chemist.”

“A clumsy one,” sighed the doctor.

Anthony turned to Svetla. “Where should we go next?”

“We have that personal business to attend to. Let’s do that first. Then we can start questioning people.”

The compartment’s hatch stood open. From the doorway Anthony could see a small room decorated with religious icons. The man sitting at the desk wore a round black hat and a black robe, with a gold cross hanging from his neck.

“Father Pyotr, I’d like you to meet my husband, Anthony Frankovitch,” said Svetla. “Intended husband.”

The priest shook Anthony’s hand firmly. “I’m glad to meet you.” He turned to Svetla. “And glad to see you looking well. I’d worried about you.”

“Thank you. Would you be willing to marry us? Tomorrow?”

“Of course.” He eyed how they held hands. “Have you been—” He used a Russian word Anthony didn’t know.

“No, Father,” answered Svetla. “But we said vows before we did anything, so we committed ourselves to live as husband and wife.”

True, if kissing and groping didn’t count as anything. Probably not what the priest was worried about. Svetla began discussing details of the ceremony, wanting live video links so both their parents could watch.

Anthony knew his mother would be pissed. He and Svetla had argued whether to have a Catholic or Orthodox ceremony. He’d proposed just going with whichever denomination sent a priest to the Moon first. Svetla immediately agreed. Then she told him the Russian national space agency had sent a chaplain to their Moon base.

The Antonellis would watch the wedding first thing in the morning, the Koltsovs as they were about to turn in. St. Petersburg and Los Angeles were on opposite sides of the world. Father Pyotr scheduled a conference room and video channels. “The room we will have an hour before the ceremony starts. There’s things we must discuss before the wedding. Normally I would insist on weeks of counseling, but,” he shrugged.

After the ceremony the two of them would be loading the hopper and taking off for the Chinese base. This trading run was making a loop of all the bases, with some stops at home to top off the hopper’s propellant supply.

When the wedding arrangements were made, they stepped back out into the corridor. Svetla said, “I think we should interview the rest of the base personnel separately. You can talk to the scientists, they’re all fluent in English. I’ll handle the support staff.”

Anthony frowned. “Is that safe? There’s a murderer around. I want to protect you.”

She patted her pocket. “You gave me protection, dear, in good American fashion.”

He gave in. The base labeled its corridor intersections clearly enough he could find the laboratories without trouble. The scientists didn’t complain about him interrupting their work. Anthony’s notebook filled with the names of the scientists and who’d been with them at the time of the murder. He hoped Svetla was making equally good progress.

---

She checked off life support maintenance from her list. The next was, sigh, electronics repair.

“Yuri,” said Svetla.

The bratva turned from his workbench, putting down the soldering iron. A broad grin spread across his scarred face. “Svetla! I’ve missed you. We had so much fun together.”

“Where were you when Dmitri was murdered?”

He stood. “Straight to business? No talking about old times? My dear Svetla.”

“That’s Gospozha Antonelli to you,” she said, as if she was one of the Czar’s new aristocrats.

“Oh, he married you? Did you tell him how much you’d whored for me first? Do you play the games with him you played with me?”

“He’s no fool. Where were you when Dmitri was murdered?”

Yuri grabbed her neck and lifted her into the air. Not a hard feat in lunar gravity. He pressed her against the wall. “I’ve missed this game, too.”

Svetla couldn’t answer. He held her throat tight enough she couldn’t speak or breathe. In previous times they’d played this game she’d fought (and been beaten) or gone limp (didn’t help). Once she’d counted, finding it took fifty-two seconds for her to pass out.

But those other times he’d stripped her naked first.

She slid her hand into the thigh pocket, pulling out the dart gun. She pressed it to his chest and pulled the trigger. The dart penetrated, but missed his heart.

Anthony machined the dart guns from a block of solid aluminum. A barrel held a ten millimeter wide dart. A reservoir held oxygen at fifty atmospheres pressure. A thin diaphragm separated them. He loaded them by putting a slug of LOX into the reservoir and sealing it. The dart gun was left to warm up in the mining tunnel, as half of them ruptured before the oxygen warmed to room temperature.

They’d practiced outside, putting darts into a thin sheet of aluminum Anthony scratched concentric circles onto. Svetla wasn’t a great shot. She had to shoot from the hip to keep the venting oxygen from knocking her over after the dart flew away. But she could hit the target from three meters.

Yuri was closer. The dart penetrated his chest. The expanding oxygen followed it down the channel it dug through the bratva’s flesh, continuing to accelerate it. When it exited his body the dart flew across the room and penetrated the concrete wall.

The channel was now filled with oxygen at fifty atmospheres pressure. It expanded. The man’s lung collapsed, forcing a pant from his nose and mouth. The heart muscle stood up to the gale, but the blood vessels attached to it ruptured. The gas forced the blood down the vessels, causing water hammer to rupture vessels elsewhere in the torso.

The heart kept pumping, but it was empty of blood.

It was as if a cherry bomb had gone off in Yuri’s chest.

He fell back, his arms flailing.

Svetla slid slowly down the wall. Her right hand hurt where she’d braced it against the force of the gas blowing out. Her throat hurt. But she could breathe.

Before Yuri reached the floor his body was leaking blood from every orifice and many places where the water hammer had broken the skin. The workroom was splattered with blood from floor to ceiling.

“Now you know why Dmitri got rid of me. Idiot.” Svetla staggered from the room. She needed the doctor. And a witness.

Dr. Belousov was familiar with Yuri’s games. He ran a ultrasound over her neck and verified there was no permanent damage.

The nurse muttered, “He knows how to not damage the merchandise.” She’d likely been forced to play that game as well.

Anthony rushed in. “Are you all right?”

Svetla switched to English. “I’m fine, dear. I’ll just have some bruises on my neck.”

The marks must be visible already. He was staring at her neck in horror.

“He could have killed you!”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe just wanted to intimidate me. We’ll never know, now.”

Artemyev came in. “I heard Yuri attacked you.”

“He did. I defended myself.”

“Was it because you were investigating Dmitri’s murder?”

“He didn’t say.”

“We should take a look.”

They all trooped from sickbay to the electronics repair shop.

Everyone except Svetla swore at the sight. Artemyev looked over the room. “Is any of this your blood?”

“No.”

“What kind of weapons are you two carrying?”

“It’s a dart gun powered by compressed oxygen,” said Anthony. “It’s not that powerful.”

Artemyev rolled his eyes.

Dr. Belousov had a couple of technicians from the adjacent shop take the body back to sickbay. “One more corpse and I won’t have room for a live patient.”

The commander ordered three other techs to clean up the mess. “No point in preserving evidence. We know exactly what happened.”

As the others dispersed, Anthony asked, “How far did you get in your interviews?”

“About half of them. I think the rest can wait until morning.”

“Yes. We should get some rest.” Anthony passed his spare dart gun to her.

The base mess hall served them zharkoye. Anthony found it not much different from stews he’d had elsewhere. The two of them ate in silence, not wanting to discuss the murder or the attack where they could be overheard. The Russians at the tables around them didn’t try to speak to them.

Artemyev had assigned them a room for two. It had bunk beds.

“Hmph. I thought we could have married housing,” said Anthony.

Svetla chuckled. “Let us sleep separately, out of kindness for Father Pyotr.”

“Not what I meant. I thought you could use a cuddle after being assaulted.”

“I’m fine.” She flashed him a big grin. “I won.”

“I’m glad.”

They tossed some pillows on the floor, hardly necessary in Lunar gravity, and lay down for a cuddle fully dressed.

Anthony asked, “Are there going to be more bratva trying to kill us?”

Svetla shook her head. “No, there’s just Ivan and Aleksey left. They’re only muscle. Probably calling home right now to ask what they should do.”

“Good. What the hell is the mafia doing on the Moon, anyway?”

“You don’t know?”

“I’ve been avoiding the topic. It seemed painful.”

“Yes. Less so now that they’re mostly dead. They came here for Helium-3.”

“But that’s a dry hole.” All four nations with lunar bases had tried extracting He3 from the regolith, but none had found a way cost-effective enough to make it worth shipping to Earth.

“We know that now. When the base construction started, the agency was making big boasts of how much reward there could be from helium or radioactives or other resources. None came true, but it got them the funding to build Leonov Base. The bratva decided they wanted a cut of that money stream and snuck Dmitri and the rest onto the staff. Since then they’ve been throwing their weight around and trying to find ways to make money. Hence buying your ore.”

“Oh. So they wanted to make money but it’s mostly a waste of time for them?”

“The real profit for them has been threatening to destroy experiments here to coerce the agency into letting the bratva have a slice of the procurement contracts back home.”

“And all the rest?” Anthony waved his hands, trying to indicate the horrors Svetla had been through without actually speaking them aloud.

She stayed silent for a long moment. “Maybe just how they took their personal share of the profits. Maybe just habit. I don’t know.”

“Well. Either way, it’s over.”

“Yes.”

---

They were woken by someone banging on the door to their room. The thin sheet metal of the door boomed under the blows. Anthony grabbed the dart gun he’d put under his pillow at Svetla’s suggestion. “Who is it?” he called in Russian.

“Artemyev. We have work to do.”

Svetla rolled out of the bottom bunk, holding her dart gun. She opened the door. “What?”

“We’re going to arrest Ivan and Aleksey as accomplices. I want your guns for firepower.”

They’d slept in their jumpsuits, only taking off the grippy socks which served as shoes in the base. Donning those just took a moment.

In the hallway there were three young scientists with Artemyev. Anthony recognized them from the interviews he’d done the day before. All four Russians held knives like the one they’d seen stuck in Dmitri.

“Let’s go,” said the commander.

He led them to a stateroom. Two sleeping men were awakened with a shout of, “You are under arrest for theft, rape, and conspiracy to murder!”

In the face of the knives and guns, the junior bratva did not try to resist. In a couple of minutes they were tied up and hauled to a storage room to await their trial.

Artemyev turned to his visitors. “Thank you. I was afraid they might have snuck in a pistol or something. You can go back to sleep.”

They went back to their room, but between the adrenaline and how soon they expected to rise, there was no point in trying to sleep. Anthony took their notes and began covering a wall of the room with a chart plotting who was where at the time of the murder.

“What does O. R. stand for?” asked Svetla.

“Own room. That’s everyone who was alone in their room at the time.”

“Anybody visiting someone else’s room?”

“Not yet. Father Pyotr should be happy to hear that.”

She chuckled. “Good thing for him we weren’t asking for alibis for 2300 hours.”

“Anyway. We still need to interview another sixteen people. Do you want to pair up for them now?”

Svetla shook her head. “I’m safer now than I was yesterday.”

“That’s another thing. Why did Artemyev arrest those two? We don’t have any evidence they were involved in Dmitri’s murder.”

“Maybe just to be thorough. They’re certainly guilty of theft and rape.”

The tone she said the last in made him drop the subject.

Once the day cycle started they ran through their interviews. Anthony thought many of crew he was talking to would rather have been asking him questions. He and Svetla took some sandwiches back to their room to go over their data.

“No alibi for Yuri,” said Svetla.

“Yes. But here’s what bothers me,” said Anthony. He pointed to a row with multiple checkmarks. “Artemyev said he was in his office, with no alibi. But three other people said he’d dropped in on their laboratories at the time of the murder.”

“So? Maybe he forgot he left his office. Maybe they misremembered the time he came by.”

“Or people got the word that he intended to murder Dmitri, and they’re trying to cover for him.”

She pointed at the chart. “Yuri has no alibi. He assaulted an investigator. He’s the obvious suspect.”

“But what’s his motive? He’s not going to get more money. He won’t control an important operation. He’ll still be here, just abusing his fellow cosmonauts like before.”

“That’s detective-story bullshit.” She was much better at English invective than Anthony was at Russian. “Yuri didn’t like taking orders. He probably had plenty of reasons to hate Dmitri. All the motive needed.”

“That’s not proof he did it.”

Svetla glared at him. “What does that matter? We signed up to investigate. We investigated. We give Artemyev the data. Making the decision is his job.”

“Is he going to decide to turn himself in for murdering Dmitri?”

“I hope not. Whoever did it, killing Dmitri was a good thing.” She softened her tone. “Let’s call Artemyev in and show him the data.”

Anthony waited a long moment before answering. “Fine.”

After looking over the chart, Artemyev called a general meeting. The mess hall was packed, with crew sitting on the tables and lining the walls.

The base commander kept it short. “The death of Dmitri Omarov was murder. Our best guess is that it was committed by Yuri Bezmenov, who is beyond punishment. Yuri was killed by Svetla Koltsov. Dr. Belousov testified that physical evidence showed she’d been assaulted by a man with large hands exerting lethal force. I rule that the killing was self-defense. No charges will be brought against Koltsov.”

He waved to the scientists he’d had with him for the arrest. They brought the two younger bratva forward.

“Ivan Falkov and Aleksey Nikitin, I find there is insufficient evidence that you assisted in the murder of Dmitri Omarov. Therefore those charges are dropped. You are still accused of theft and rape. Will you plead guilty, or shall I ask witnesses to testify?”

Anthony watched the crowd’s reaction. There were only about a dozen women in the crew. They all looked angry.

Ivan said, “Guilty.” Aleksey just nodded.

“Very well. You are both sentenced to ten years hard labor. Our friends at Yuegong Base report they are understaffed. You will serve your sentence there. Put them back in storage. Meeting is adjourned.”

The room filled with chatter as people streamed out. Anthony couldn’t follow any of it.

Four women came up to Svetla. They greeted each other warmly and exchanged hugs. She introduced them to Anthony, but the names went by so fast he couldn’t catch them. Svetla gave him a smile and wave as they carried her off.

A few men had buttonholed Artemyev for a discussion of electricity allocations. Anthony waited for them to finish. Whether the man had gotten away with murder or not, Anthony still had to do business with him.

The commander saw him waiting. “Yes, Anthony Frankovitch?”

“Most of the deals I came here to make were with Dmitri. Are you his heir for those?”

“I suppose I must be.”

They went over the list of trades on Anthony’s tablet. There were goods on the hopper from NASA’s Armstrong Base, promises from the Chinese for what they’d trade for what they wanted, and the list of Russian goods he was to load up.

“The one I’m worried about is the three liters of samogon the Americans wanted. They already paid Dmitri in crypto. Are you willing to let them have it even though you won’t get the payment?”

The Russian commander smiled for the first time. “Dmitri’s passwords were on paper in his wallet.”

“Oh.”

“And I’d send samogon with you just to get rid of it. Drunks are dangerous in space.”

“Uh, thanks.” Anthony had his own qualms about smuggling moonshine to the astronauts, but he wasn’t bound by NASA regulations any more, and they’d given him a substantial fee.

“Are you still going to the Chinese station next?”

“Yes.”

“I want to send the two convicts with you. What would you want as compensation?”

“Hmmm.” Anthony realized they’d have to negotiate that. While he handled bargaining with Americans, Svetla handled dealing with everyone else. Especially Russians. “Let me know what their mass is and I’ll see if I have enough propellant reserve to take them on this leg. It’ll take some time to run the numbers on that, so let’s discuss it in the morning. I have to get ready for our appointment with Father Pyotr.”

“Of course. May I attend the wedding?”

“Yes, please.”

Anthony arrived at the conference room early. He couldn’t do the calculations until Artemyev gave him the mass of the prisoners, so had nothing better to do. Father Pyotr arrived before the scheduled time and took him into the room.

The interrogation which followed felt more like he was dealing with an FBI agent than a priest. He promised to care for Svetla in all important ways. Raising their future children as Orthodox Christians was on the list of promises. He complied, not wanting to screw up the wedding. Svetla would probably want that anyway, and he wasn’t going to be able to stand up to her on it.

Another thing his mother would be pissed about.

Once all the questions on the lengthy checklist were answered, Father Pyotr began giving advice. It seemed to be good advice, but there was no way Anthony was going to be able to remember all of it. It was a relief when someone knocked on the door.

“Enter!” called the priest.

The door opened. Svetla came in.

Anthony stared in astonishment. She was in a dress. He’d never seen her in a dress. All she had were standard issue cosmonaut jumpsuits.

It wasn’t a fancy wedding dress with lace. Just a simple dress to her shins made of white fabric. Her hair was done up with flowers and she held a bouquet. She giggled and did a twirl to show off the dress.

The skirt flared out—a little. He realized there were weights sewn into the hem to keep the dress from flying out of control in the light gravity.

He hopped to his feet and reached for her, leaning in for a kiss.

“Ahem.” The priest’s tone was stern.

They jerked away from each other.

“Mr. Antonelli, will you give us a moment? I have questions for your bride.”

He mumbled something and stepped out the door, closing it behind him.

The hallway was crowded. Svetla’s friends from the mess hall were grinning. “Did you like the dress?” one asked in Russian.

“Yes, it’s amazing. Thank you. I didn’t realize you grew flowers here.”

“We don’t,” said another. “Valery knows origami. He’s been folding flowers all day.” She pointed to a man standing in the back of the crowd.

Anthony made eye contact and thanked him.

Perhaps out of mercy for his limited ability in Russian, they didn’t force him to make small talk while waiting for Svetla to finish her interview with the priest.

When the door opened everyone poured into the room. A tech turned on the display screens and linked the long distance video channels. Anthony stood in front of the screen marked ‘Los Angeles.’

It lit up. He saw his parents, his sister, and a few other relatives. Mom must be throwing a party for the occasion. Fair enough. He was depriving them of a wedding reception. He said hello to everyone and introduced Father Pyotr.

Mom grimaced for an instant then put on her polite face.

He glanced over his shoulder. Svetla was talking to her family on the other screen. They’d stuffed even more cousins into their place. She gave him an imperative wave.

“Excuse me folks, I need to say hi to my in-laws-to-be.”

He spotted her parents easily, he knew them from the monthly video calls they each made to Earth. He’d practiced his speech. Once Svetla finished her introduction, he said in Russian, “Hello, everyone. I’m glad to meet you. Thank you for joining us on this special day.”

After a bit more chatter—including some pointed questions from Mrs. Koltsov which extracted promises to care for Svetla—he took his bride to the other screen.

Introductions were delayed by Mom’s comment on the dress. “That looks very nice, dear. Is that the fanciest dress on the Moon?”

“Mom, as far as I know this is the only dress on the Moon.” Then he made the introductions. His cousins looked impressed. They should. Svetla was lovely even in a jumpsuit. In the dress with her hair done up she was a heavenly body.

Father Pyotr gave them a meaningful look. Not a glare, but clearly a warning there’d be a glare if they didn’t stop messing around. “Sorry, everybody, it’s time for the ceremony.”

The tech took over the camera feeds to make sure all the relatives would have a good view. The conference room had six for him to choose among. The witnesses squeezed against the walls to not block the view.

He’d watched videos of Russian Orthodox services to prepare. He still couldn’t sing along with the hymns. He’d learned the key prayers in Russian. Svetla had made sure of that.

In Orthodox tradition the rings were donned early in the ceremony. Anthony produced them from his pocket. He was proud of them. He’d cast them himself from some gold he’d bartered from the Indian base.

More prayers and hymns. One hymn he knew well enough to sing along with. Father Pyotr placed flowered crowns on Anthony and Svetla’s heads. He then handed them lit candles. It seemed a massive victory of tradition over safety, but there was a crewman with a fire extinguisher standing by the wall so Anthony didn’t worry about the fire spreading.

The two of them exchanged the crowns, placing them on each other’s heads three times. They drank wine while holding hands.

At last Father Pyotr took back the crowns and said, “Go forth in peace!” Everyone cheered.

The crowd walked them back to their room. At the door, Svetla held up the bouquet. The women of the crew elbowed their way to the front of the crowd. She gave it a gentle toss, taking advantage of the gravity for a slow arc. It still hadn’t been caught when Anthony closed the door behind them.

“This is an improvement,” said Svetla. Someone had put an air mattress on the floor. It filled the room.

“Much better than a bunk bed,” Anthony agreed.

---

When they emerged in the morning, the mess hall had stopped serving breakfast, but two plates had been set aside for them. The cook said “Only once” as he handed them over.

Artemyev had weights for the prisoners and their spacesuits. Anthony began calculating the hopper’s capacity for a trip to the Chinese base and then home. It worked, but they’d have to take their payment in cash or data, not trade goods.

Svetla squeezed him for most of the currency in Dmitri’s accounts. “What would you do with it? The bratva would be waiting to collect as soon as you returned to Earth.”

“And what happens when you go home?” asked the base commander.

She smiled. “I’ll be home in three days, when the hopper brings us back to Wildcat Station.”

“Truly? You’ll spend the rest of your life on the Moon?”

“I’ve put too much work into this home to give it up now. Besides, the bratva would already want to punish me if I went Earthside. They won’t forgive me for Yuri.”

Artemyev shook his head and conceded to her demands. He wanted the prisoners gone as soon as he could, lest someone be bribed to free them.

A quick message to Yuegong Base confirmed the Chinese were ready to accept delivery, and go through with the other arranged deals.

Anthony and Svelta suited up, transferring their dart guns to the outer pockets. The two bratva voluntarily donned their spacesuits when they were told the alternative was to be carried out the airlock without them. Straps secured them to the deck of the hopper.

The hopper hovered while Anthony adjusted its center of gravity for the payload. The pulsed rockets roared like the biggest popcorn popper in the world. When it was stable, he initiated the flight program. A full Earth gravity booted them in their seats as they ascended to Yuegong Base.

It was going to be an eight minute coast before starting the landing burn. When the hopper went silent, Svetla said, “That was a more profitable visit than I’d expected.”

On the hopper they were connected by a wire, letting them speak in complete privacy. Anthony replied, “I’m not sure it was. I feel like we were used.”

“Used?”

“What they call a patsy. Artemyev wanted to kill Dmitri. He used our visit to distract him so he could slip in the knife. Then he hired us to investigate. That set up the confrontation with Yuri. With Yuri and Dmitri dead, he arrested the thugs. Now he’s cleaned house and the bratva will blame us.”

“Yes. What is the matter?” She took his hand. Holding hands was lovely, but less romantic in spacesuit gloves.

“It’s murder. No arrest, no evidence, no trial. Just murder. Artemyev committed murder and we’re accomplices.” Anthony tried to keep his tone level. He was angry. But he wasn’t angry at Svetla.

She thought a moment before replying. “You want a big city mystery story with police and detectives and lawyers and judges. We don’t have that here. It’s an outpost. Crime is like, what do you call them, a cowboy story. Everyone knows the criminal and what he did. It just takes one brave man to stand up to them and put an end to the crimes. Artemyev was the white hat man for Leonov Base.”

Anthony sighed. “He’s the sheriff and we’re his deputies? I guess I can live with that.”

Her hand squeezed his.

The hopper’s rockets fired up for the landing.

More stories by Karl K. Gallagher are on Amazon and Audible.