MICHAEL

  HE PROMISED HE WILL ESCAPE, of course he did. But that loyal fanatic wouldn’t believe. Poor Matt, lying there now with a huge lump on the head, where Big Mike stroke him with the rifle handle.

  Matt will be alright, so will be his people. They’re not dead, just beaten. Severely.

  Mike rode the bike and wondered whether he done enough or too much. By stealing the vehicle he violated another set of rules. The list of his crimes grew.

  Only he no longer cared. In the night only the moonlight was the witness, and since most of the satellites stopped working, they could not locate him.

  They’ve been shortsighted for so long, now they’ve become blind. Bling gods.

  The engine hummed low beneath him, like it didn’t want to disturb the crickets, didn’t want to break the hush the world had wrapped itself in. As if the machine, too, respected the Earth.

  It felt amazing. To ride again.

  Not on the cracked grey bones of the Moon. But here, on Earth. Bare skin on wind. No suit, no helmet fogging with each breath, no clunky oxygen pack whining like a dying insect on his back.

  On the Moon, riding meant silence so deep it crushed thought. The bike’s tires kicked up powder, but there was no dust cloud. No smell of rubber, no sweat in the air. Just static in your ears and the hollow tap of your heart echoing inside the suit.

  Here, he could feel everything. The vibration through his thighs, the wind biting his cheeks, the scent of pine and salt brushing past like a forgotten memory. Even the night air had weight. Real, heavy, honest.

  And the view? Sure, the stars were sharper, the shadows longer on the Moon. But it was all the same shade of dead. Here, even in the dark, the world breathed. Trees whispered. Fields sighed. A fox darted across the road, quick as a flicker. On Earth, you were part of a symphony. On the Moon, you were the only note.

  Mike knew parting with the bike would be hard. It felt too alive. Too honest.

  But he’d have to do it. Dumping it in the sea would be safest. Saltwater erased things.

  Somewhere near Astoris, if the battery lasted that long.

  ***

  “WE ARE THE GUARDIANS of this planet,” one of the Elders said, her voice calm but thunderous in its conviction.

  They stood in front of the High Council, all five of them lined up in their pristine black uniforms, boots polished to a shine that caught the cold artificial light.

  Mike. Matt. John. Peter. And Luc.

  Of course Luc. Front and centre, as always.

  The Elder’s in the council had designated Maria as their speaker. She had the voice, the presence, the charisma.

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  “You might wonder,” she continued, scanning their faces one by one, “why we are starting this war. Why we invoke a tyrant. A dictator. Why we support him.”

  Mike’s jaw tensed, but he kept his posture stiff and neutral. Behind his unmoving eyes, thoughts whirled. This speech, this performance was for Luc.

  Luc, with his perfect jawline, his perfect record, his perfect bloodline. Luc, who got the role Mike once dreamed of. Luc, who was now the god Ari incarnate.

  But Mike also had done a lot, how come this went unnoticed? All this hard word they all been doing. The plotting, the coups, the murders they had to commit, or at least orchestrate. They were putting kings on the thrones and cutting their crowned heads only for Luc the receive the praises.

  “The control of Earth and its resources is vital for our survival,” the Elder went on. “The surface dwellers—primitive, fragmented—must be united. We can either do the mining, the hard labour, the building… or we can have them do it for us.”

  She paused for effect, letting the truth sink in.

  Mike kept his expression still, but inside, he seethed. Not at the words. He understood the necessity. It was the way she looked at Luc while saying them. The reverence. Like he was already a legend.

  “It was a great relief for our ancestors,” the Elder said, “when they discovered that life had survived on Earth after the Catastrophe. They had fled here, used the last of the old fuel, risking everything. Not for conquest. For preservation. Of history. Of knowledge. Of the human race itself.”

  She took a step forward, and the others on the dais bowed their heads as she spoke.

  “But survival required sacrifice. We lacked resources. We lacked time. And we lacked unity. That’s why we return—not to repeat history, but to rewrite it. To guide them into order. To renew the pact between gods and men.”

  Mike’s eyes drifted to the window behind the Elder. One of the few on the base. Outside, the desolate surface of the Moon stretched in every direction. Harsh, beautiful, empty. A graveyard of ambitions.

  “In the North, resources are scarce. The chosen nations must expand. Conquer. Control. And in return, they will supply us. Worship us. Fear us.”

  Finally, the Elder turned her eyes toward Luc, her expression softening into something dangerously close to admiration.

  “We are very pleased with your commitment to the cause,” she said, her tone now warm and intimate. “You play the role of Ari to perfection. Your chosen one, this Nemeth, has exceeded all expectations. A true Führer. Even better than the original.”

  Luc inclined his head with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

  Mike stood still, his fists clenched behind his back. He felt the bitterness crawl up his throat like bile.

  He should have been the one on that podium. Of course he should.

  He’d trained harder. Scored higher. But Luc had the look. The charm. The myth written into his DNA.

  And now he was the one being worshipped like a god, while Mike stood in his shadow, just another tool in the machine.

  “Any questions?” the Elder asked, though it was rhetorical. No one asked questions at these briefings. You nodded. You obeyed.

  But Mike, just for a second, imagined speaking out.

  Why him? Why not me? The words burned behind his teeth.

  But he said nothing.

  He bowed his head, just like the rest.

  ***

  ASTORIS LOOMED IN FRONT OF HIM. Magnificent.

  From the ridge, the city spread out like a mirage etched in stone and silver. Pale domes shimmered beneath the moonlight, catching the starlight on their tiled backs like sleeping beasts. Minarets rose like spears toward the sky, slender and elegant, their spires crowned with crescent symbols that glinted softly in the dark. The walls were ancient, bleached by sun and sand, carved with lunar runes and verses from forgotten scriptures.

  The god of the moon was worshipped here, yes. But not appointed. Not sanctioned by the High Council. No manifestation had arrived. Only his prophets. Dozens of them, in every district. Preaching, fasting, performing miracles, or rather illusions. Staged performances. But the people believed. That was all that mattered.

  Mike stared down at it, his breath fogging faintly in the cool air.

  Then, without hesitation, he turned back to the bike.

  It had served him well. Sleek, fast, quiet. But it did not belong to this world. Of course it didn't.

  With a grunt, Big Mike wheeled it forward, up to the edge of the cliff. For a heartbeat, he hesitated. Then pushed.

  The machine tumbled silently into the void, swallowed by the jagged rocks and silence below.

  Mike stood there a moment longer, listening for the crash that never came.

  He turned, adjusted the scarf around his face, and began the long walk down toward Astoris.

  The desert wind picked up, warm and dry, carrying with it the scent of date palms, incense, and dust.