TerranTechnocrat

Of the ten billion people alive on Earth and the Moon, there would be very few to survive the cataclysmic Flame Deluge. The immediate nuclear chaos wasted billions of lives and rendered the Moon utterly untenable for life in the long term. Those that survived did so in remote communities in the wilderness, deep beneath the sea, and onboard rockets bounding through the dead immensity of cosmic space whose only glimpse of the tragedy was likely a dim illumination of that pale blue dot in the void. Others were statistically improbable lone survivors who dug their way out from the ruined cities and countryside, wandered through the poisoned carcass of the shattered world, and made their way back to the relative safety of the struggling wilderness. Humanity's previously pristine cities upon the Moon—orderly, scientific, outwardly utopian—were utterly ruined by Flame Deluge. The great Lunar rocket centers were immediately repurposed for sending atomic payloads toward one another's refinery

You step past the threshold of differential pressure and humidity into the greenery of the gardens. It all throngs out as vines and shoots, condensing into choking underbrush, cut by paths of floor paneling left barely discernible by the low maintenance of the gardeners. Tiny animals startle you, flitting to and fro over the air, through the leaves, and beneath the sub-ceiling canopy. Moisture droplets form and condense, falling on your skin, adding however intangibly to the continual pattering around as you contemplate each cautious step. The low purr of organic noise and shifting streams of stellar light that periodically stab through tinted windows assail your senses, while the dampness feels like it threatens to weld your suit-cloth to your skin. You decide that you don't like the humidity. Stamped to the far wall of the first green chamber, visible in clear machined type kept free of moss or overhangs, you see one of the gardeners' typical sayings: "To tend to and cultivate the