Murder On The Moon!

Murder On The Moon!

Opening Paragraphs, Chapter 1

 

Detective Strait, lead agent of the Federal Space Agency, fumbled with his Makarov MK80 ray gun for the umpteenth time trying to wipe out the dust and lint that collected in the cooling veins and crevices of the piece. Dust and lint like to collected there during the many days of carrying on his belt as his duty side-arm. The weapon was a dust magnet, to be honest, and though the newer laser pistols have more compact cooling systems, this old Makarov was the gun Rodney Strait had carried for most of his career. He could hit his target, and though the recharge rate was slower, he knew his first shot would hit it’s mark, and there was usually no need for a second shot. Unless there were two targets. Like back in thirty six. It cost him his partner. But dammit is partner should have seen that coming.

The calendar on the wall showed December of 1940. Hitler had just added Ukraine to the Deutschlandic Union much to the dismay of Russia, allowing the DU to become the third largest sovereign nation in the world under the United States of the Americas and Chino-Russia. With Hitler and his technological stranglehold on the world, it was almost certain that he would soon seduce Russia and China into joining the DU, making it the largest nation in the world. The United States of the Americas would be watching closely.

Detective Strait was watching closely, though not the affairs of the worlds’ nations, but that of the World Series Playoffs on his telo-vision box. Though he could barely make out the images on the screen, he could hear the audio just fine, and he knew his Detroit Metro Tigers would breeze through this round against the Berlin Natters and move into the next round.

Detective Strait was a middle aged man, average height, dressed in a black suit with a wrinkled white shirt. His coat was tossed over one of the vacant chairs in his office, his shoulder holster lying on his desk next to his black fedora. His unshaven face almost hid the fact that his black mustache was intentional, and that his facial wrinkles were not. His black hair and brown eyes complimented his black suit and tie nicely.

As he sat there, he contemplated how many years he had until retirement. He had been with the FSA for fifteen years. He was certain the boredom would kill him before any bad guy ever would. When the job was exciting, he couldn’t get enough, but when it was slow, like really, really slow, it made the days long and the pay less and less worth it. He stopped wiping the lint from his weapon long enough to absorb that dreary thought. It crowded his mind. The telo-vision announcer declaring that the Tigers had won and was moving on to the next round was not even enough to break him out of his self-induced, self pity trance. And then the videophone rang.