The Lunatic Hotel is a lousy flophouse where the seams of the cooling vents send up clouds of mist from the walls and ceiling, which hug the cracks and recess of the cheap pig iron walls, and slowly float through the air of the lounge and bar in the bottom floor, joining cigarette smoke and steaming glasses of Jupiterian Vodka in a swirling miasma that obscures all. But its one of the cheapest places on all the Moon, and they don’t ask questions. For someone in my line of work, the Lunatic Hotel is a godsend.

My name is Gabriel Starr. Since the war’s end, my career has been extralegal. The universal argot refers to my job as a Marshine Runner. I’ve got a sleek little ship with a good engine and a cloaker, perfect for sneaking past rival gangs and the odd honest coppers, and a cargo bay I can stuff with plenty of barrels and bottles of Marshine. The Lunar Mobs pay good money for it, and then it goes Earthside to speak-easies across the planet. They say there’s law on the Moon, but its easy to buy and you only have to spend a couple of years running Marshine on the spaceways to realize who really calls the shots around here. One thing’s for sure: you have to be damn careful who you piss off.

Anyway, I was between jobs and was wasting some time sitting in the Lunatic’s dingy saloon staring into the swirling crimson inside my shot glass and wondering how I was going to spend the evening. I wore the cheap clothes I always wore, a silver trench coat, a clean shirt, tie and trousers, and a dusty fedora. Then I hear her voice, and everything changes.

The melodious notes drift across the smoky bar, crawling into my ear and making ancient memories fresh and painful. I want to keep on staring into my drink and I tell myself not to turn

around, but like a sucker straight out of the spaceport in Chi-Town I turn and then our eyes meet and there’s nothing for it but to look at her and remember.
She’s thin and slight, wrapping herself around the microphone stand like some kind of serpent. Venusian hips slowly bend as the beat of some old Terran blues tune thuds somewhere in the background. A multi-armed Plutonian on a piano and bass, his light blue skin sweating in his white tuxedo, is the only accompaniment she has, and he’s about as pointless as a screen door on a starship. All eyes are on her and she knows it, with her light green Venusian skin glowing under the light, her copper hair coiled above her pointed ears like the flapper girls back on earth, her loose-fitting gown the same stunning turquoise as her eyes.

“Xel’challa.” I whisper her name, if only to remind myself that the beautiful creature I’m staring at actually has a name and that I knew her. It was long ago, during the war, when everyone was young and stupid. I was posted on Venus, nothing but endless jungle patrols and sweat dripping down from the brim of my crested helmet and my time with her that I can think about without flinching. They said the Bug-Eyeds had lost and we had won, but I all know was that in the jungle, where every second could be a prelude to a Bug-Eyed rearing up behind you, spreading out your

guts for all to see and then the blast of ray-gun fire scorching through plants and flesh with the same ease, everyone suffered alike.
The song ended and I clapped my hands vigorously. I was about to stand up and go to her, to talk and drink and reminiscence about the old Venusian days, the good old R and R days when we sat side by side in her bungalow, her Venusian Clan Brothers and Sisters playing children’s games downstairs as we made love with the same ferocity that everyone else in the galaxy used to make war. But some mug beats me to it, elbows past me and walks over to the stage.

“Goddamn it, Xel, you damn green-skinned slut!” He’s an Italian, Lunar Mafia, and from the cut of his black suit and tie and the sheen of his slicked back hair, he’s closer to the top than the bottom. He has thugs with him as well, a pair of muscled Martians dressed in similar dark suits. I eye the Redskins uneasily. Soon as the Bug-Eyeds poured in from the galaxy’s edge, they had taken the opportunity to turn on their human conquerors. It took many deaths before the Terrans had Mars back in their pocket.
“Sally, I just wanted to sing a little.” Her voice is demure and weak, lacking its glamorous edge that I recalled. “There’s no harm in it, I promise.”
“You just wanted to sing? Is that it? And you wouldn’t think of raising your canary voice when I got the boys over, would you? Ah, no, it’s all ‘sorry, Sally, I got a sore throat, I’m tired, Sally.’ The nerve! I bust my back buying you dresses and perfumes and then you go and sing your little heart out to a bunch of trash just came back out of the spaceways. I tell you, Xel, when we get home I’m gonna have you sing until you scream.”
I look at his hand, spotted the ring, and then look at hers. Remarkably, she’s got one too. This guy is bad news. He’s got the kind of psycho hot-blooded foolish impluse that lives in every hood, waiting for a chance to come out guns blazing. I step in front of Xel’Challa.
“Easy, friend. I don’t think she meant any disrespect in singing to some trash like me.”
Sally goes red as his Martian bodyguards. “Boys! Get a load of this! This bum thinks he can order me around!”
Xel steps off of the stage and comes to my defense. “Easy, Sally, I know him. From the War”
“Oh, you know him! Well, ain’t that grand! You wanna come out here and meet your old chums, while just forgetting about poor Sally back at home. I ought to break you both in half!” He turns to me, his eye flashing. “You know who I am, you dumb lunk? Huh?” He pauses long enough for me to blink. “I’m Salvatore Tessitura! I own this rotten piece of crater, and any spacehead thinks he can talk to me in my joint, with my girl-“
“Tessituras are on their way out.” I make the statement like I’m ordering a plate of Plutonian cream. “The way I see it, you got bigger things to worry about than me. Like the Vabrazzas, and the Glurps, and the McAllisters.”
“No stinking Vabrazzas, slimy Mercuricals, or Micks are gonna bump us off anytime soon.” Sal Tessitura leans in, until I can count the hairs in his nose. “But I got news for you, pal. You’re messing with the wrong guy. You let me discipline my wife as I see fit.”
I slug him. I can’t help it. My fist was fated to end up cracking into his nose and sending him sprawling. He comes up bawling, his nasal voice screaming for my blood. “Trig, Bop, tear him apart!”

The two burly Martians step forward. One of them draws a switchlaser from his pocket, the red hot laser-blade flicking out from the handle with an ominous sound of rushing air.
He swings it at my chest, but I’m ready for him, stepping to the side and ramming my elbow into his face. He lets out one of those Martian moans that I live for and then goes down from a good blow to the chest. The second Martian, Trig or Bop depending on which Redskin I just trounced, reached into his suit jacket, but I’m faster on the draw. My ray-gun is out of its shoulder-holster and aimed at his head, the finned and frilled weapon already glowing.
“Let me see them claws,” I command, and the Martian tosses his ray-gun on the floor and raises his meaty fists into the air.
Xel has watched the whole thing in disbelief. She comes to me, her thin hands on my shoulder. “Gabriel, you shouldn’t have done that.”
“Yeah, well, you know me.” I fish a cigarette pack out of my pocket and stick one in my mouth, lighting it with the warm tip of the ray-gun. “Always doing things I shouldn’t.” I point my cannon at Sal. “All right, Tessitura. Get lost.”
“I’ll be back, Gabriel.” Sal spits out a tooth. “No one does that to a Tessitura! Not in my neighborhood! You’re gonna pay! Ain’t no one gonna miss you, you spacehead son of a -----!” He screams out threats to the whole bar and the heads for the door, his two Martian guards limping after him. I watch them go.
Xel’challa turns to me, and the Venusian broad has the red-faced passion that I remember from the old days. She grabs hold of my hand and doesn’t let go. Not that I’d want her to. I pull her close.
“Oh, Gabe, why’d you have to go and pick a fight? Sally’ll kill you! He’s killed men before, and he’s got friends…”
“He ain’t got nothing.” I steady her with my arm. I think about everything that happened between us – why I didn’t stick around when the War ended – why she didn’t follow me home. “He’s a creep, Xel, a dirty, mad, bastard. How’d you end up married to a heel like that?”
“You don’t know what it was like, on Venus after the war ended, I mean. All the humans went home. All the money was taken out of the place. There was nothing to do but farm and hunt like we had for centuries. My clan sisters and brothers saved up everything they had to send me to earth, but we only had enough to shoot for the Moon.”
“And you needed some rich scumbag to foot the bill. I know how it is. Well, that ends right now. Forget everything that happened since I left. It’s gonna be just like old days for us, just the way things were.” It’s an idiotic notion, but it pulls me in like a black hole, smoothing all sense in its utopian abyss.

By now the other saloon patrons, mostly pilots, Marshine runners and guns-for-hire have fled. They know a kind what kind of brawl is about to break out, and they don’t want any part in it. Smart guys. Soon it’s just me, Xel, and the outdated robot behind the bar. It’s a stubby, boxlike machine of nicked metal. The barbot’s cognition circuits whir up and its light bulb eyes click on like a firefly after nightfall.
“If-You-Have-An-Phys-ical-Arg-U-Ment-In-This-Esta-lish-ment, Sir-Or-Madam, Then-You-Must-Take…It-Out-Side.” The barbot’s speech is a garbled and broken, but I get the drift. Still, I know how to handle metal men like this. I swing my ray-gun at it.
“The fight’s gonna happen in here, old bot. I promise no one’s gonna get what ain’t been coming to them. I know you got a double-barreled spread cannon under that bar. Hand it over. You’ve got your self-preservation circuits telling you to do so.” I level my ray-gun at the robot. Dutifully, the robot reaches under the bar and hands over the spreader, two tubes of black steel as big as my forearm with a trigger. Like everything in this joint, it stinks.
I take the spreader and tuck it into my trench coat. I haven’t got much time before Sally and his boys arrive. I start barricading the door. The moving walkways for the transport tubes in this crater are slow and narrow, but you can bet that Sally will find a way to get a lot of gunsels on them. I put some chairs and tables in front of the door, while Xel’challa watches like she’s on another planet.
“Gabe.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Gabe, is it true? You’re a Marshine Runner? A crook?”
“What can I say?” I turn around and grin at her like an idiot. “You make do with what you can. You should know that.”
“I can’t go away with you.”
“Sure you can.”
“No, I need to go to Earth. I’ve got to earn money, send it back to Venus, pay for the rest of the Clan. They need the money, Gabe, they really do.”
I look down the porthole windows of the Lunatic Hotel, and I can see fedoras and trench coats coming down the walkway, weapons already glowing in their hands. I turn back to Xel’Challa. “That’s the kind of problem we can work around. Now get upstairs, fourth floor, room number 303.” I toss her the key.
“But, Gabe, Sally’s coming.” She points out the porthole. They’re coming, a whole chopper squad gunning for me and me alone.
“Go upstairs,” I command. “Make yourself at home while I kill these bastards.”

•

They try to batter down the door, and when that doesn’t work, they burn it. They turn on their ray-guns and blast right through the flimsy metal door and the cheap wooden tables. They charge in with their heat rays still flying, scorching the cheap tables and leaving a harsh chemical odor. The old stained steels char and burn under the fusillade. I sit under a table, hiding like a rat, and clean my nails while I wait.

I wait until they’re all inside. Eight guys, not including Sally. These thugs look like they could start a fight at a moment’s notice, and they’re packing enough weapons to give them a good chance at winning. Four of them have got atommy guns- – nuclear power submachine guns that can fill the air with lead in seconds. The other four have atomatic pistols, ray-guns, and spreaders. Sally holds a pair of atomatics like he knows how to use them. I’ll have to play this one smart.

“The spacehead’s in this dump somewhere!” Sally shouts to his soldier. “Spread out! Find the bum! I want his head on a goddamn platter!”

One of the mobsters heads towards my hiding spot, a second one close behind. I wait until the last minutes, remembering my time in the Terran Infantry, hiding in a shallow rain-filled ditch in the hell-green jungle while the Bug-Eyed hunters prowl, their claws and jaws clicking in anticipation. I shake the flashback from my head and I’m ready.

I throw my weight against the table, kicking the large wooden piece of furniture towards the Mafiosi. Just like I expected, the Lunatic Hotel couldn’t spare enough dough for a fully-functioning gravity system. The table floats through the air like a missile, smashing into the two thugs, and then I pull out the spreader and give them one barrel full of lead. The wood splinters as the bullets pound through and then a spurt of blood stains the table as the gangster on the other side takes it right in the chest. In seconds he’s down, the table right on top of him and then I draw out the ray-gun from inside my trench coat and fire at the gravity system on the wall.

One shot is all it takes, and then everything not nailed down in the bar starts floating. I hurl myself into the air and soar towards the ranks of the gangsters, firing off the second barrel of the spreader as I go. This time I hit a hood in the face, and bits of his skull and brains float about like strange planets. I spin round and open up with my ray-gun, killing two more in that many seconds. My ray-gun is the same sidearm I carried in the war, and it burns those familiar holes thick and wide as a stack of nickels through flesh and skin.

Sally is shrieking out orders. “Kill him! Shoot him full of holes! Bring him down!” I don’t have time to trade insults as I hit the entrance doors and propel myself towards the bar. The Tessitura shooters adjust to the lowered gravity and start trying to kill me. The attomy guns open up, filling the space I used to occupy seconds ago with lead. I duck under the bar as the bottles and drinks above me are shattered by waves of bullets. I wait until the shooting stops, and then I pop up and fire back. My shot strikes a torpedo in his neck. He gurgles as his burned skin slowly spreads apart and then his severed head floats above him and bounces against the ceiling.

The three remaining members of the chopper squad descend on me, and my ray-gun’s power pack is almost out. One of them jumps over the bar, pointing his spreader straight at me. He fires and I feel the blow, my left arm going limp as bullets tear through it. Before he can get another shot off, I jam my ray-gun under his chin and pull the trigger. Another thug leaps into the air and hovers above me like a vulture. I pull the body on the bar close to me, feeling blood ooze onto my chest as leaden-messengers thud into the corpse’s back, then I push it away and let him have it. I burn three holes in his chest and one more in his forehead. The overkill is force of habit from the war, when Bug-Eyeds could keep on going after taking dozens of shots.

The remaining gangster takes me from behind, stabbing a switchlaser deep into my back. My ray-gun drops to the ground and so do I. He raises his blade again, but my hand is out and grasping for something and then I find the neck of an empty bottle. I crash the dead soldier against his face and then jab upwards, shoving broken glass into his throat. He gurgles and coughs and then falls silent. I grab my ray-gun and come to my feet.
Sally stares at over the barrels of both his automatic pistols. We regard each other coolly, and then he starts firing. “I’m Sally Tessitura, and you’re gonna ---ing regret the day you ---ed with me, you spacehead mother------!”
I jump to the side and feel the wind as the bullets zoom past me, and then I support my shooting arm with my wounded limb and take careful aim. I wait until the sights are over his red face and then I lean on the trigger and don’t stop until his head goes black and burned and he topples backwards and floats in the air.

•

When I get to my room, Xel’Challa has already cleaned the place out. My spacesuit, jetpack, and three months worth of hard-earned cash are gone, as well as my spare ray-gun. She left me my first-aid kit, and I hastily bandage my arm and back before I head to the balcony to get some air and there she is. She’s got my spacesuit on, my jetpack strapped over her thin shoulder, and my own ray-gun pointed right at me.

I freeze and raze my hands. “Xel.” I whisper her name to remind myself who she is. “Why?”
She shakes her head. “Gabriel Starr, you are a fool. The same fool who fought so hard during the war, who I loved so much. The galaxy’s changed, Gabe, and we’ve got to change with it. My clans needs me on Earth, needs me earning them money to buy them passage.”
“You don’t want to do this,” I tell her. “You don’t have to do this.”

She shrugs and laughs, that beautiful mirth from long ago. “If you believe that, Gabe, then you’re a bigger fool than I thought you were.” And then the Lunatic Babe jumps off of the balcony, the jetpack bursting to life halfway through her descent and carrying upwards to the crater’s glassy bubble dome. She sings as she flies away, an old Terran blues tune that I can hear over the jetpack’s whine.

I sit there on the balcony, and watch the lunatic dame fly far, far away.

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