Concrete moon. vol. 1

II

Insomnia

A deep crisis reshaped the whole world. Technological progress — once boiling over with ideas — froze at roughly the level of the early 2020s. Wars that tore through Africa and the Middle East, the COVID-19 pandemic, a string of conflicts in Europe and Asia, a brazen assassination in the White House, and, finally, the fiery mushroom of a nuclear blast — all of it split humanity into three hostile blocs, each fighting for global dominance.

By 2047, under the pressure of insoluble geopolitical contradictions and blood-soaked conflicts, many countries of the former united Europe — as well as Canada, Mexico, Australia, and a number of others — sacrificed their independence, dissolving into a federal state under U.S. rule and declaring the New Law across their territories. The young formation began calling itself the Transatlantic Union of Nations (TAUN), emphasizing that it had expanded beyond the Western Hemisphere.

On the other side of that chessboard, the Eurasian Union was gaining strength — a powerful counterweight that included Russia, Kazakhstan, Belarus, and North Korea, with support from India, Iran, China, and several other countries of the Global South.

A third force was forming at speed as well — the Arab Union, led by Saudi Arabia. Egypt, Jordan, and Pakistan had already joined; another dozen were waiting in line.

There were also those who chose to remain independent. Some national leaders deliberately avoided backing either side, maintaining neutrality, but most were happy to sell their loyalty to whoever paid more.

For citizens of the TAUN, the world beyond its borders became a blind spot. The internet fell under harsh censorship, the borders were sealed tight, and high walls went up — topped with barbed wire, watched by military patrols. Relations between the poles of the world, as had happened more than once in history, slid into a cold war, occasionally spilling into a “hot phase.”

All the institutions of power in the former Europe were taken over by bureaucrats — a caste of officials appointed by the leaders of the Transatlantic Union of Nations. They proclaimed themselves “Oracles” — bearers of absolute truth. That truth, apparently, consisted of the rapid and merciless Americanization of European society.

For decades we’d been frightened with the specter of World War III — a nuclear apocalypse that felt inevitable. Tension rose day by day, yet the years kept passing, and the war came only to our streets: a battle between escalating crime and society itself.

The showy rhetoric of “Unification” — standardizing laws, institutions, cultural norms — required enormous funding. New names for agencies and titles, signage, forms, stamps… all of it demanded colossal cash injections. Year after year budget priorities were arranged so that the police got almost nothing. The result: mass layoffs in law enforcement, which triggered a criminal surge unlike anything we’d seen. That picture became typical across all the European — “states,” as they were now called. And yet whenever people mentioned it, they always added with bitter irony: “Well, not in Old America.”

The idea of “Unification,” once announced as a path toward prosperity, strength, and democracy, turned into a grim dystopia. Under the guise of a transition period, all power concentrated in the hands of the American elite, while the masses — divided and crushed — lost hope a little more every day.

Once, Mother Europe gave birth to America. Now the child had grown up, returned home, and fucked its stupid mother.

For several years now, a secret organization called the Justice Front had been trying to resist Europe’s criminal collapse. Some saw it as the last hope; to others it was just a myth invented by the desperate. No one knew where their headquarters were, how to join, or whether they existed at all. But the rumors kept smoldering like sparks in the dark, promising that someone, somewhere, was still fighting for justice.

Rosenberg became a vivid example of what the New Law did to Europe. Everything in the city accelerated to a near-unthinkable pace. What used to decay slowly now began coming apart in a hurry, while anything that had been limping along suddenly surged forward at an insane rate. Rosenberg even swallowed an entire new residential district with state-of-the-art infrastructure in the space of a couple of decades. And yet, at the same time, the city that had once been calm, safe, and breathtakingly beautiful was turning faceless — shedding its history, losing the architectural character that made it unique. It sold its soul to the neon devil.

The place we’re in now is called Rock-Port — also known as Old Rosenberg. Sounds like somewhere for a romantic stroll, right? Don’t kid yourself. In reality, it’s a dump. The largest district by area, it sits in a hollow on the right bank of the Elbe. Right now I’m in the industrial zone: grim factories, a forest of blackened stacks, warehouses, and the rusted frames of workshops — caked in old dust and webbing.

Closer to the bridge that would carry us out of this dead end to the left bank lay the residential strip. Slums. These overcrowded quarters, like anthills, were packed with aging apartment blocks affordable only to the poorest layers of society. A weak light burned in some windows, and behind faded curtains human silhouettes flickered. But even this place could pass for a little patch of paradise compared to the bleak refugee camp farther down the road. No one in their right mind would show their face there — by day, and certainly not at night.

Horrifying poverty, predictably, meant the highest crime rate in the city. Chaos and violence became routine. Narrow alleys, damp basements, abandoned buildings, rusted cars, leaky roofs… nowhere felt safe. Mountains of cases piled up at the precinct: murders, disappearances, assaults, rapes, robberies… The river took bodies every day, as if it were some deranged sacrificial rite.

Dirty air, dirty streets, dirty souls. It all pooled here. And yet this is also where the city began. It was founded in 1856 as a small workers’ settlement called Stein, spread out at the foot of the Elbe Sandstone Mountains. Among the descendants of the locals, a sinister story still makes the rounds: one of the mines suddenly caved in, burying dozens of miners under the rubble. But the worst of it fell to the ones who lived… They lost their minds, unable to forget what they’d seen in that pitch-black dark.

Germany’s industrial peak changed everything. In the years leading up to the First World War, an industrial district began to take shape around Stein, and it was christened Rock-Port. First came a steel mill, then an arms factory. Progress couldn’t be stopped. The thud of hammers and the shriek of steam engines carried across the whole region. Soon a repair shipyard appeared on the Elbe; then came electrification. Chemical plants multiplied along the right bank, racing the spread of new housing. A key hub of military industry, the settlement kept expanding even during the war years — development pushed onto the left bank. And so, in 1917, with official approval, the magistrate decreed the founding of the city of Rosenberg — named for its distinctive bright-red sunsets, like the glow of factory furnaces.

I pressed the gas, eager to leave behind the ugly fence topped with rusted barbed wire — and the grim bulk of Eisengitter Prison crouched behind it. The road carried me toward the nearest bridge to the left bank, into West Rosenberg.

Through a veil of fog ahead, the ghostly outline of Horbindrow emerged — the thirty-story casino complex that had once passed for luxury. Even before the New Law, Siegfried Muller, the former burgomaster, had ordered it built on the riverfront: a desperate bid to revive the city through tax revenue and make Rock-Port look a little less like a dead end. It didn’t work. The casino changed hands more than once, then shut down for good, turning into a massive tombstone.

There was the bridge. It wasn’t long, but the view still caught in my throat: a majestic red arch crowned with a giant “R,” and a multi-level interchange spreading a spiderweb of roads toward every district of the left bank, glittering with millions of lights. Streetlamps poured a soft, yellowish glow over the wet asphalt. In the rearview mirror, the dangerous district fell away. Ahead — only the illusion of safety.

Off to the right, about thirty miles from Rosenberg, the stacks of a power plant belched smoke into the night. Nearby, hidden deep in the forest, lay one of the strangest places in our region: the small ghost town of Amurscheid, abandoned in 1943 for reasons no one has ever explained.

I crossed the bridge and rolled into Downtown — the most compact district in the city, the center of business life. Tall office towers stabbed into the clouds like syringes filled with poison. Branches of American corporations stood here alongside the stock exchange, the biggest banks, City Hall, police headquarters, the courthouse… You could almost believe order lived here. Almost. Downtown was safe in the same way it’s safe to keep cash in a safe with a glass door: visible, protected — still tempting. Cameras and patrols didn’t erase risk; they just forced criminals to get smarter. The city center owed its calm mostly to the contrast with places like Rock-Port. Everything’s relative.

I don’t know if it was always like this, but now a person’s worth is measured in money. We live in a society ruled not by people, but by cursed pieces of paper — soaked in the stink of sweat and greedy hands.

All subway lines converged in Downtown like blood vessels feeding a single heart. One glance at the map was enough to see how far the city had stretched along the river, especially on the left bank. Traffic jams were routine; the underground was a genuine lifeline. But it had picked up another reputation along the way: by day it was hunting ground for pickpockets, and by night it became a habitat for prostitutes and junkies.

Downtown bordered the three remaining left-bank districts: Karbon, Rainer Heights, and Donnertal. All of them were relatively small — and even together they covered less ground than Rock-Port.

My route cut through gray, unremarkable Rainer — the fastest way out to the suburbs.

Nearby, only a few blocks away, lay Karbon — Rock-Port’s little brother. Same wear in the brickwork, but without the smoking factories and industrial zones. Mostly old residential buildings here, largely apartment blocks inherited from the GDR.

And then Donnertal — or just Donner: a world of upscale high-rise apartments, modern townhouses, green parks, and wide, multi-lane roads. The kind of place where neon signs never really go dark — famous boutiques, giant shopping-and-entertainment centers, clubs, bars, restaurants. The district for the city’s richest. My girlfriend lived there — Alice Klein. Lis, to those who knew her.

Twenty-four. Slim, petite, with eyes the color of spring leaves and a voice you remembered from the first word. An architect by training and an artist by instinct — I used to joke she’d been born with a pencil in her hand, because she’d been drawing for as long as she could remember. She lived with her mother, who, like me, worked in the police. Alice’s parents split up before she was even one: her father had wanted a son, and he couldn’t live with the fact that a girl had been born instead.

We’d celebrated our second anniversary not long ago, and I loved her just as fiercely as I had at the beginning. She was smart, caring, kind — and beautiful. With her, I felt genuinely happy. I was grateful to fate for putting us on the same road.

Ahead, a tributary of the Elbe appeared, with an old stone bridge over it. Beyond the bridge, the road wound through thick forest and climbed a high hill. There, in the shade of the trees, sat the suburban settlement of Stern — where I lived. Alone.

My parents — Till Heinemann and Rebecca Heinemann — were murdered.

Till was taller than me, almost six-foot-three. You could feel his strength even in a handshake. He served in the police, and his partner — his best friend, too — was Engel Becker. Inseparable, like brothers.

Mom… Mom was my father’s opposite — fragile, elegant, a head shorter than him. Rebecca held a high position at an insurance company, but for some reason I never picture her in a business suit. I always see her in the light dresses she loved.

Ten years ago, when I was seventeen, life still felt carefree — full of hope. Then one Sunday changed everything. It was Unification Day. I was at the movies with my closest friends — Johan, Melanie, and Friedrich. I still remember it in detail: after the film we went bowling — Fritz threw strike after strike, and Johan managed to drop the ball on his own foot. Then, tired but happy, we split up after midnight and went home. The evening had been perfect.

At home, a different reality was waiting.

When I opened the door and stepped inside, Engel was standing in the entryway. Even now, it’s hard to think about without feeling something snag.

My parents had been heading to a restaurant that night. They’d already left, but my father got an urgent call — into Donner. He followed the order… and he didn’t come back.

You know what the worst part is? I didn’t know then — on the worst day of my life, walking out to meet my friends at the movies — that I was seeing my parents for the last time. I still try to remember their last words to me… and mine to them. I can’t. There’s a blank in my memory, as if someone tore a page clean out of the book.

Engel told me everything he knew — he’d been thrown into that meat grinder too. My father died a hero, stopping a monstrous terrorist attack aimed at supporters of the New Law.

After that nightmare, the only family I had left were my grandparents. In a hurry, they moved into the house. Cancer took my grandfather soon enough — fast and merciless. My grandmother held on by sheer will, slowly dissolving into dementia; she died on the eve of my eighteenth birthday. I inherited our house in Stern and large sums from my father’s accounts, but none of it could drown out the scream inside me: Why?

That’s how I ended up alone. From then on, every holiday that could have been filled with family warmth turned into a bleak reminder of loss. No one could truly understand me, share my joy, or stand with me when it mattered. No one loved me anymore simply for existing. And I never fooled myself into thinking anyone would be moved by my story — most people still had at least one parent.

In the end, I learned to rely on myself.

From the first days after they were gone, loneliness began erasing me from the world. And to feel alive, I had to flirt with death. That’s how I ended up at the police academy, though I’d never dreamed of that life. Engel kept an eye on me — he’d promised my father.

Years passed, but neither he, nor my friends, nor the women I dated — no one could pull me out of the black abyss I was falling into. That feeling — grief mixed with rage and emptiness — became my constant companion, and each year it only grew stronger.

And there was Stern: my home settlement, spread across high hills and wrapped in dense forest. I liked everything about it, but most of all the fresh pine air — nothing like Rosenberg’s choking smog. Stern was huge for a settlement — much bigger than, say, Karbon. Its history went back centuries; the first houses were built here long before Rosenberg was founded. Mostly two- and three-story cottages, but also imposing mansions, and in recent years tidy townhouses appeared more and more often. No surprise the locals were mostly well-off, working in City Hall, banks, insurance companies, private clinics, the police, and the power plant. Nearly all the local elite were old-stock Germans whose families had lived here for generations, not newly arrived Americans who preferred Donner.

The car came to a silent stop by the garage. I stepped out and froze for a moment, taking in my home. It stood alone at the forest’s edge. A vast lot, ringed by a five-foot hedge, drowned in greenery. The three-story house occupied only a quarter of the property. Behind it lay a small rose garden and an elegant gazebo — Mom’s pride and favorite place to rest. There was also a guesthouse, a utility shed, and an open-air pool.