> For when I look at the Moon, I do not see a hostile, empty world. I see the radiant body where man has taken his first steps into a frontier that will never end.—David R. Scott, Commander Apollo 15, National Geographic magazine, Volume 144, No 3, September, 1973
> Modern science says: ‘The sun is the past, the earth is the present, the moon is the future.’—Nikola Tesla
> Everyone is a moon, and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.—Mark Twain
> The Moon
> Albedo: 0.12 Diameter: 2,159 miles (3,374.8 km)
> Orbital Period: 27 days
> Orbital Speed: 2,288 mph (3,683 kph)
> Perigee: 226,000 miles (363,300 km)
> Apogee: 252,088 miles (405,696 km)
> Surface Gravity: 1.62 meters per second squared)
> Surface Area: 14.6 million sq. miles (38 million square km)
> Brent Callister knew he was going to die when they dragged him into the tunnels under the Moon. He struggled against them, but they were too strong. Too perfect. They marched him to his doom, expressionless. No emotion to be read in their quicksilver eyes.
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> “Let me go,” he murmured. But his pleading was useless. They would only follow the orders of one person, and that wasn’t him. Perhaps he could still negotiate his way out of this. What had he really seen? What did he know? Wasn’t he just as culpable if word got out? Please. I'll do whatever you want. I'll go along with the program. Just please don't put that stuff inside me.
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> He could not break free of their iron grip, so he relaxed. He was only prolonging the inevitable. His mind worked on a way out, even though a large part of him knew this was the end of the line. But he had to try.
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> He had come too far not to try.
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> They turned a corner, dragging him along like a child’s toy. Their strength—even in the lesser lunar gravity—was immense. They stared straight ahead, giving him no more regard than he would give an ant he had just crushed with his shoe. They stopped in front of a faded red door. The door read their biometrics and opened onto a small room with a single chair in the center. The dimly lit space was limned in shadow, but he could make out a lone figure standing by the chair. The smug son of a bitch had the audacity to smile at him.
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> A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
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> He relaxed in their iron grip. “What are you going to do?”
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> The other man tapped his long fingers against the back of the chair, appearing to think about the question. “You’ve been a bad boy, Brent. Threatening to go to the newsfeeds. What would you have me do?”
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> Not this, Brent thought but didn’t say. They let him go, and he yanked his arms down and held them at his sides. There was no use running. They’d have him again in seconds. They could rip him apart with their bare hands. Or infect him. Given the choice, he’d take the first option.
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> They could also space him, toss him outside without a suit. He wouldn’t last a minute. But he knew the Project would never let a viable test subject go to waste.
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> “Have a seat. Let’s talk about it.”
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> Brent squirmed. They grabbed him again and dragged him around the chair. It was fitted with thick canvas straps. Brent’s blood went cold.
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> “No.”
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> They forced him into the chair effortlessly, strapping him down with a speed that startled him. His tormentor was still in shadow, a gray, uncaring ghost.
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> In front of the chair was a stainless steel table. A familiar transparent cylinder sat atop it, filled with a roiling fluid the color of mercury. The liquid twisted and writhed. Fluid dynamics were stranger on the Moon than on Earth, but it wasn’t the lighter gravity that caused the material to quiver and flow unbidden. The substance moved because it was alive.
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> “You’re a monster. You know that? Word will get out. And when it does, you’ll be finished. They’ll ship you back to Earth in chains. You’re done, you fucking psycho. You hear me?”
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> “Brent,” the man said in a low, soothing voice. “Please. You know it only takes longer if you struggle.”
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> “You’re a monster,” Brent said again, but the fire had gone out of his words. His eyes were downcast, his voice low, deflated.
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> “We’ll see if history calls me a monster or the architect of a new age. An age you helped to usher in. You should be proud of that.”
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> Brent uttered nervous laughter and found he couldn’t stop. It was either that or scream. He was still laughing when the man opened the cylinder with a precise twist of the lid. The last thing Brent Callister saw was the stuff in the cylinder reaching for him like an enormous, flowing hand.
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