Darkside Miners

by Crunchy

Copyright© 2005-03-27 by Crunchy

Science Fiction Story: Flash I wrote for strangewest zine, now defunct. Reposting here. No Sex. "There are no guns on the Moon."

Tags: Science Fiction   Space  

The last time the water bandits had hit Frank Kabrosky and Jose Ferrera's claim, they were unprepared. Five anonymous figures with shiny faceplates, three wicked looking clubs with sharp spikes on the ends, and they had to flee in awkward hopping bounds, to preserve suit integrity, leaving the bandits to transfer six-thousand gallons of water they had toiled the past four months to refine from the unforgiving hard rock extraction mine. There are no guns on the moon. Just five months earlier, Jose and Frank had cashiered out of their five year contract with the Corp., and set out to become independant water miners. They staked a good claim in the wilds of darkside, out of sightline from earth, and settled down to lonely toil. Then those bastard bandits had taken all their gains, and they had to go into hock for food and supplys. They could crack the water for air and fuel, using the solar plates, sure- but Damn, they were pissed off, and they woud be ready next time. The bandits were too clever to take any of their equiptment, as it was all indelibily marked, and valueless for resale in the small lunar community, and their tracks got lost in the jumble of fifty years of traffic as soon as they hit the main road, but if they tried it again ... Frank smiled grimly to himself.

Six grueling months later, they came back, hoping for another easy haul. They figured they outnumbered Frank and Jose. Jose shook the sleeping container sharply in the pre-arranged signal, waking Frank from a weary sleep of just two hours after a 16 hour shift. There wasn't much else to do, except sleep and work. That, and figure out what to do the next time those bastard bandits tried to steal from them. He had his suit on in two minutes, and had the air cycled and was outside in three, patiently going over the checklist in spite of his haste. Pressing his helmet against Jose's, he got the update. "The Bassers are four miles out, comming at 35 miles an hour. We hit them as soon as we see their sharp clubs, No?"

"Yeah, you sling your whirly, and punch up the dust right in front of their buggy, maybe knock it on it's side. If they don't take the hint, and come at us, I will take them out."

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