Moonful of silver, p.1
Moonful of Silver, page 1
MOONFUL OF SILVER
Copyright © 2026 by Neon Portal Press, Dawn Ross, Frasier Armitage
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations for a book review.
Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This is the product of humans. No artificial intelligence was used to create this book.
First Printing, 2026
Table of Contents
Copyright Page
Moonful of Silver
GLOSSARY
NAMELESS
ESTEBAN
TRANSMISSION
NAMELESS
GABE
LUNAR HQ
NAMELESS
MARIA
LUNAR HQ
NAMELESS
ESTEBAN
LUNAR HQ
JO
NAMELESS
ESTEBAN
LUNAR HQ
NAMELESS
GABE
LUNAR HQ
NAMELESS
MARIA
LUNAR HQ
NAMELESS
ESTEBAN
LUNAR HQ
NAMELESS
JO
NAMELESS
MARIA
LUNAR HQ
NAMELESS
MARIA
LUNAR HQ
ESTEBAN
LUNAR HQ
NAMELESS
SYSTEM OVERRIDE
NAMELESS
MARIA
LUNAR HQ
NAMELESS
ESTEBAN
NAMELESS
GABE
NAMELESS
ESTEBAN
NAMELESS
GABE
NAMELESS
BROADCAST
JO
NAMELESS
GABE
BENITO
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Q&A
ALSO BY DAWN ROSS
ALSO BY FRASIER ARMITAGE
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
SNEAK PEEK
For those with no name
For the wandering strangers
The bringers of hope
GLOSSARY
ART-AT: An invisible shield that covers a Lunar colony to provide an artificial atmosphere and to offer partial protection from the extreme conditions of the Moon’s surface
CLICK: Approximately one Earth-hour
COLLAR: A device that amplifies the effects of the art-at, allowing humans to breathe unrestricted inside a colony. Collars also provide chemical stimulation to adjust a body to the prolonged length of Moondays and Moonnights, enabling their wearer to survive for extended periods without food or sleep
MOONDAY/MOONNIGHT: A Lunar day is equivalent to about a fortnight on Earth, as is a Lunar night
MULE: A common type of hovercycle powered by a Magnetic Universal Levitation Engine
REGOLITH: A blanket of dust containing minerals that coats the bedrock of the Moon
SCANSLINGER: A class of bounty hunter who patrol the Lunar surface and are famed for their deadly skills with a scanner
NAMELESS
Present
All the town needed was a headstone and it would’ve been a grave. The lone stranger rode their hovercycle through a dead tide of dust, with skeletons of buildings creeping up from an ocean of silt. Black rot spewed from the hover’s engines as it floated in thin gravity to choke the ground.
Any moment now, the emptiness would be broken by a welcoming committee, a hotelier, a Lunar HQ official, a child crossing the street, a noise, a breeze, a scanner pointed at their back. Anything. But it never came. The rider turned their visor right and left, but the town remained barren. Nothing. Why so quiet? If they hadn’t known better, they might have thought they were alone.
The stranger slowed to a stop and disabled their hover’s translucent shield, ignoring the stubborn streak of soot that billowed from its tail and the whispers of smoke hissing from its carapace. Bluish beams scattered beneath it, which kept it still floating, at least.
Dust kicked up at the stranger’s boots as they drifted through diminished gravity onto a walkway. Everything moved slower when gravity was weak. Movement demanded more care. More precision. One clumsy misstep could take an age to correct. But on the plus side, there wasn’t too much of a bump when an errant slip caused a tumble. The rider’s boots landed in front of an open door. They stepped inside, but halted just within the threshold until gravity generators kicked in and the full weight of their stride returned.
Conversations hushed across the colony’s communal dining room, decked out in the style of an old-fashioned saloon. Red cheeks turned pale as necks craned for a view of the stranger’s silhouette while they lingered in the doorway.
The rider glanced over at stone tables where men and women sat in crimson, standard-issue, Lunar HQ mining suits. They wore collars with stenciled numbers ready to be scanned. The colonists averted their eyes and every table forced itself into a show of merriment. Drinks were sipped deliberately loud amid the swell of hollow laughter, patrons trying too hard to have a good time.
The stranger paced through the hubbub. The dull clang of their footsteps followed them through the saloon until they rested both hands on top of the bar.
A robot’s scuffed frame slid on its conveyor-belt behind the counter until it scudded to a stop opposite. On its face, a square flatscreen showed pictures of drinks on offer and the number of credits each of them cost.
The stranger reached over the counter, scrolling through the images. They landed on a solitary glass of deep amber liquid with nothing added to temper the shot of hot whiskey. Perfect. They pressed the photograph, and a beam flashed from the robot, scanning the rider’s collar. At their neck, a silver band clung to their skin, with the numbers on its rim scratched off, the ID hacked and removed. Didn’t need a name to order a drink, or pay for one either—not in these badlands of the Moon.
The machine beeped as it took the credits. It ran along its track to the back wall where glass bottles with liquids in every color glowed. After draining a near-empty bottle, it returned to the counter with its arm mechanically extended, holding a dusty glass that contained the last dregs of whiskey.
The stranger reached for their drink. They wrapped their fingers around the cool glass, wrist moving in circles. The swilling, thick amber nectar stuck to the rim like treacle before slipping down the sides to gather again at the bottom. It smelled fiery as a volcano, not that the scent drifted much through the rider’s visor.
A patron approached the bar. He wasn’t dressed in crimson, but wore a scruffy, tanned coat and thick wool trousers, as well as a grimace on his bearded face.
“Whiskey!” he barked at the automaton which slid across the bar to meet him. His stern voice rose over the din of the saloon.
“Error,” the machine bleeped, and a red circle with a diagonal line flashed on the screen over the picture of the drink.
“What do you mean, error? I said whiskey, you pile of junk.”
“Error,” it repeated, still flashing the warning.
The bearded drunk lunged over the bar at the screen, but the robot’s gears took it beyond the reach of his swipe.
From behind him, another man in the same long, tanned overcoat grabbed his arms and yanked him back. “Diego. Are you crazy? What are you doing?”
“This useless thing won’t give me whiskey!” He spat the words through gritted yellow teeth.
“Error,” the message repeated, sending Diego into another rage. His arms flailed, and his gruff eyes looked ready to climb the bar and throttle the insubordinate machine. But his smooth-jawed compadre held him back.
“Diego. You want whiskey, right? Why don’t you let me try?”
The idea simmered, and as it took root, his tantrum subsided. He looked away from the machine to the floor, and belched. “Okay Ramone, you try.”
Ramone released Diego’s arms and turned to the machine. “What’s the error?”
“Error code 431.”
“There you go, Diego. It’s not his fault. They’re out of stock, that’s all. Why don’t you drink something else?”
“Out of stock? What kind of bar is this? I want whiskey.”
“Diego—”
“I said whiskey.”
“Diego, leave it.”
“Whiskey!”
“Error.”
“You’re going to give me whiskey, you estupido machine, even if I have to kill you!”
Diego threw himself at the bar but his friend kept him at bay. When the thud of a glass slammed on the counter, the two men stopped. They twisted their heads in the direction of the stranger who rested their whiskey on the polished countertop.
Diego senselessly fought through the arms of his friend until he was loose, and with a dark grin on his ugly face, he staggered toward the stranger.
“I see you’ve got my whiskey,” he said.
The stranger didn’t move, keeping their hand on the glass.
“Hand it over,” Diego demanded, reaching for his belt, parting his coat to reveal a holster with the tip of a scanner poking out.
The stranger didn’t so much as flinch, their fingers still fixed to the glass.
“Something wrong with your ears beneath that pretty little helmet ? I said give me that whiskey, boy!”
The two of them stood motionless, one with a hand on their drink, the other holding back his coat, keeping the handle of his scanner on show. Voices drowned into the distance. The machine clunked back to its default position. Everything in the saloon stilled, poised.
The stubborn drunk’s coattails hung around his ankles as he gawked open-mouthed, and his thick brow furrowed. In the helmet’s reflection, he peered at his own menacing statue. The scruffy lout had played his hand, and now it was up to the stranger to do the same.
Slowly, the stranger released their glass, reached up and placed both hands on the base of their helmet. A hiss of pressurized air preceded a click as the helmet lifted from their head. They laid it deliberately and patiently on the counter beside the whiskey glass.
An ebony neck-scarf wrapped around the stranger’s throat, tucked into the top of their basalt-woven waistcoat. They shrugged off their loose-fitting captain’s jacket, revealing the holster that hung lazily from their hips—laser-pistol on one side, and scanner on the other. At the sight of their face, the drunk blinked as if he were seeing things. Staring back at him was the face of a woman.
In her thin lips, clamped between her teeth, she rubbed her tongue over a half-chewed toothpick. She peered through predatory eyes with a cool intensity that intimidated awe, freezing everything she looked at. A shock of red hair swept across her face in a side parting, hiding the crease of her forehead as she regarded the brute with reciprocated malice. She pulled the toothpick from her mouth and flicked it away, meeting the drunk’s hard stare with callous and unforgiving eyes.
“Wha—what do you say, Amiga?” Diego stuttered. “Are you going to hand it over?” As he spoke the words, he reached sloppily across his belt, and his chubby fingers twitched over his scanner. His other hand wiped away beads of sweat dripping from his brow.
The stranger stood still, her ferocious gaze bearing down upon the man like an avalanche.
Diego’s hand quivered on the hilt of his scanner, threatening to mow her down before even giving her a chance to answer. The longer they faced one another, the more desperately he craved the soothing comfort of the whiskey, the more he licked his lips, and the more violent grew his twitch.
The stranger’s hand moved with a graceful steadiness over the bar, and she wrapped her slender fingers around the glass without taking her eyes from the man. Picking up the whiskey, she extended it toward him, saying nothing, and held it out.
Diego sighed and his shoulders unclenched. A smarmy grin widened across his untidy beard. “You scared me for a minute there, lady. I thought I was gonna have to do something you might regret.”
He swaggered the few paces which separated them and reached to take the glass from where the stranger offered it.
Her calm, just like her eyes, never faltered.
The two of them stood no more than an arm’s length away. Just as the man was about to grasp the coveted whiskey from her outstretched hand, she tipped the glass upside down. The amber nectar poured over Diego’s wool trousers and heavy boots, splashing him with the sticky contents of a now empty glass.
The stranger placed the glass on the bar, and Diego stood humiliated, his disbelieving eyes aghast at the sorry state in which he found himself. He’d wanted the whiskey, and now he had it. But the stranger’s cool head matched the flame of Diego’s temper, and his face twisted into a murderous scowl.
He lunged for his scanner. The stranger’s hand flashed faster than an eye could blink, and by the time the drunk’s fingers found his holster, it was empty. The stranger stood holding the man’s scanner, turned it against him and pushed the nozzle into his chest. Rage flickered into fear in those anxious eyes, now at the mercy of his own threat. His lips quivered. His shallow breath shook as his chest quaked. The sweat on his brow ran into his eyes, and he blinked furiously.
All the while, the stranger slowly reached for the empty glass and dropped the scanner into it. She slid it down the bar. Ramone, the man’s compadre, grabbed it.
The stranger stepped back, stuck her hand into the pocket of her wool waistcoat, and drew out a fresh toothpick. She placed it in her mouth, collected her helmet from the bar and the jacket from the stool behind her, and spun to leave.
As she turned, so too did the drunk. He flung himself toward Ramone, snatching for his scanner.
“Give it here!” Diego screamed, and they tussled for it, Ramone not wanting to relinquish it to him until his blind indignation had worn off. But the outrage of the insulted man overcame the empathy of his protector. He wrested it from his friend’s hand and stood, pointing it at the stranger’s back as she paced toward the door.
The stranger’s ears tuned in to her surroundings. With a hand on her own scanner, she was ready to turn.
Don’t do it, she pleaded with him silently.
The man’s thumb reached for the scanning dial, about to flick through the frequencies, when a voice boomed from the door.
“Stand down, Diego! Or that scan will be the last thing you ever do.”
A tall figure darkened the saloon’s entrance. His black coat hung to his knees and a silver cravat folded into his waistcoat with the tidiness of a gentleman, disguising the collar around his neck. A gray mustache distinguished his face while the ebony rim of his hat shielded hawkish eyes. On his lapel, a pin glistened in the light.
Diego stiffened. “Captain—Esteban—this is a fair fight.”
“Is that what you call it? Seems to me you were about to scan this stranger in the back.”
“They started it! Ask anyone. They—”
“She only just rode into town,” the captain interrupted. He flashed Diego a commanding look. “I never repeat an order. You know what happens to those who cross paths with the law.”
Diego’s lip quivered. His hands shook, eyes wide. “Aye, Captain.” His voice trembled as he holstered his scanner.
“Now get out of here before you hurt yourself.”
Diego shrugged rage from where it twisted knots in his shoulders. He glared hatefully at the stranger as he scrambled for the door with Ramone in tow. The captain—Esteban—moved aside to let them pass.
The stranger eased her grip on her scanner, glancing at the captain.
His gray mustache arched crescent-like as his lips curled into a smile. “Welcome to Tranquility V.”
ESTEBAN
Past
“Welcome to Tranquility V.” Benito’s wide grin showed off exquisite white teeth as his voice trickled through the crowd.
Esteban just scowled. A bitterness filled his mouth. Was he supposed to be grateful? It wasn’t his fault that he’d been banished from the last Lunar colony. Everyone took bribes. Why should he be any different? They couldn’t get by out here without them. But Señor Rodrigo had it out for him. And now here he was, taking a handout.
Benito. Blessed. That’s what his brother’s name meant. Lucky sabueso.
He forced himself to smile as he studied the scene. The giant iron scaffold gleamed with a marbled smoothness as though fabricated from moondust, etched at the top with the words Tranquility V. It marked the invisible boundary of the town’s art-at from the rest of the crater. There were no signs warning people to stay inside the artificial atmosphere—anyone stupid enough to go beyond the art-at’s range deserved to choke on the lack of air.
An even, cobbled path led the way to the colony’s town proper where the clean Lunar streets separated rows of printed structures. On one side, flawless domed dwellings towered, complete with airlock entries and gratuitous windows. On the other, two-story cylindrical buildings stood like a parade of soldiers.
A few plants grew alongside. Genetically engineered to grow in the thin dusty atmosphere trapped under the colony’s energy shield, they provided another source of food while also making Benito’s colony look like a beach resort.
It made Esteban want to spit.
Speak of the diablo. Benito caught sight of him among the new arrivals and rushed over, singling Esteban out. Throwing him a pity-party before he’d even stepped foot into the town.
“Didn’t I tell you—you’ll love it here,” Benito said as he approached, oblivious to Esteban’s swelling resentment. “Hermanito! It’s so great to see you!”
“Compensating for something?” Esteban nodded at the massive iron scaffold where they’d agreed to meet after the hovershuttle’s departure.
