As promised, I’m posting the first thirty pages of Beer Run on this blog for free. The first section is posted below. Enjoy!

***

In the year 2538, the galaxy is governed by
the benevolent Democratic Union of
Planets, a confederation of intelligent races
united by the values of government by
consent, freedom of expression, and the rule
of law. The brave officers of the
Intergalactic Navy explore the universe
while defending the DUP from all foes,
intergalactic and domestic.
This is not a story about them. This
is a story about regular schmoes who work
at a brewery on the surface of the Moon in
the outskirts of Luna Park.

---

Bill Stiltson tilted the pint glass at an acute
angle and pressed the tap against the logo
imprinted on the front. He pulled the handle
down and watched as the Marzen flowed
down the side to the bottom of the glass. Bill
slowly lowered the glass from its angle until
it was straight. Not too fast. You didn’t want
it to come out all head, he heard his
deceased father’s voice warn him. The glass
filled with amber goodness. Bill admired his
handiwork for a moment and then turned to
give the glass to the Tuscanian who sat at
the bar.
Tuscanians tend to be large people.
Big bones. Green skin. His mother saw a
Tuscanian once and grabbed her purse.
Bill’s mom had subtle prejudices.
Sometimes, she would still call people from
other planets “aliens,” a term that didn’t
make much sense given that Earth and
Tuscania were both parts of the Democratic
Union of Planets and had been for well over
a century. The Tuscanian smiled at him with
long yellow teeth. He took a sip.
“It’s very good,” he said. “And I’ve
had a lot of beer since I moved here. We
don’t have beer on Tuscania.”
“I know,” Bill said. “I think you call
your drink Frule. I had a little when I went
on vacation once. It’s a little like rum.”
“I’ll have to have rum sometime so I
can tell you if you’re right or crazy,” the
Tuscanian said. “I have a meeting on Earth
tomorrow. In-person.”
“Fancy. These people you work for
couldn’t just do a teleconference?”
“I’m supposed to be meeting the
client,” the Tuscanian said, taking another
sip. “I design artificial gravity systems for
spacecraft, orbital stations, and lunar
ecospheres. It’s a step up for me. I wouldn’t
refuse.”
A step up, Bill thought. He
remembered when he had those. Now, he
settled for the Moon. Couldn’t be happier.
Well, he could be happier, if Morgana
would give him a second look. She was
sitting on the bench outside with her latest
flame. Her dark, frizzy hair bobbed up and
down as she listened to the wide-chested
Adonis who had been driving her around in
his Lamborghini. Bill thought his name was
Mario, though compared to Bill’s thin figure
and greasy skin, he could very well be
Casanova.
Thunk. The thudding of a flight
holder, right next to him, woke Bill from his
daydream. Lucia, one of the waitresses, had
alerted him to an order, which Bill began to
fill. An IPA in this slot. A stout over there.
A Tripel in the middle. When he was
finished, Lucia came and took the flight over
to a group of men wearing military fatigues.
Bill looked the rough men over. One of
them was wearing a black trucker’s hat with
the words ‘Full Moon’ on it. As in ‘Moon is
full, no more aliens.’
“Yeah, I noticed them, too,” the
Tuscanian said, looking straight forward as
he finished the Marzen. “I’ll have the stout.
Seeing a lot of them recently. You don’t
think the referendum…”
“No,” Bill said, filling up the next
pint. “If we left the DUP, the economy
would tank overnight. How those Lunatics
ever got the signatures, I’ll never know.”
The term Lunatic wasn’t an insult.
Well, it was, but it was also the chosen term
for people in the ‘New Moon’ movement,
which sought independence from the
Democratic Union of Planets. Most
economists on the Moon warned that having
the Moon declare independence from an
intergalactic confederation that surrounded it
would be the equivalent of voting for a
depression. Somehow, the Lunatics scrapped
up enough signatures to put Lunar
independence on the ballot for the mid-term
election next Friday. The polls said they
were dead in the water.
“I think the polls are wrong,” the
Tuscanian said. “I’m seeing a lot of dark
hats.”
“They’d have to be very wrong,” Bill
said, putting the glass down next to his
green patron.
The Tuscanian took a drink from the
stout. He swished it around his mouth and
lifted his eyes to the ceiling for a moment.
Then he shook his head.
“People here are very generous and
welcoming. They wouldn’t tell you to go
back to your own planet. Not to your face.
That doesn’t stop them from wondering if
they really would be better off if you
weren’t there. Believe me. Maybe when I’m
on Earth tomorrow, I’ll do some apartment
shopping after the meeting. I’m Vardok, by
the way.”
The Tuscanian offered his hand, and
Bill took it.
“Bill Stiltson. I own this joint.”
He spread his arms to signify his
ownership of the palace that was Lunar
Brewing Co. He was behind his bar and all
was right in the world.