Rolling down the driveway, I suddenly had a thought and snickered.
When my wife asked, “What?” I shook my head. “No, what?”
I reiterated the train of thought above, then added, “I was wondering if it would be possible to build a colony on the Moon using just what you could buy at Knox?”
We pondered it for a few moments, then suddenly said in unison, “Yes!” Inspired by Matt Weir, the result of my musings continues below.
Once my grandkids – Noah, Natalie, Ronan, and Rayna – arrived and set about separating Roza Rymbayeva Golovkin, Six-Times-Great-Granddaughter Of The Last Lunar Walker’, Gene Cernan from her “handler”, I grinned at Sturdlan Vilbix, self-proclaimed "handler" of the obviously exhausted speaker and artist.
The grandkids went to her, gently taking her hands and leading her as they pushed Sturdlan Vilbix aside, ignoring them.
As they did, every piece of spy equipment Turdman’s people had brought had its electronics and quantum circuits scrambled. “Sturdland” shouted, “Hey!” and then found themselves alone and in Truflesh without an Image Enhancement Field surrounding them.
I was startled to see “they” were a rather round, runty “he” with blaze orange hair, coiffed into something they’d have called a beehive in the 1960s mostly worn by women in the US – the grandkids’ great great grandmother had worn one just like it, but brunette instead of orange. He reminded me of a TwenCen cartoon character called Complex or something like that. It wasn’t really flattering on either Sturdlan’s real face or their/his virtual face.
I waited. The grands were waiting too. Finally, sensing the show was over, the main part of the pack escorted Roza out, chattering like a passel of grandchildren typically do, keeping their voices down and trying to amaze her with their intelligence and sense of humor. Natalie – who had just finished her training as a sergeant in the Solar Marines – was a specialist. She stepped closer to him, expertly blocking a move by Sturdlan to follow her and “rescue” his meal-ticket…or whatever she was to him. Nat blocked him/them and the man found himself un able to move and in danger of experiencing a broken arm.
It wasn’t clear exactly what she’d specialized in, but I don’t dig that deeply into my kids or grandkids’ lives. OTOH, by the precision with which they had rescued their target and the “enemy” (not sure how long Sturdlan was interested in maintaining that position), I was pretty sure it was some form of logistics. She was also in the Solar Commonwealth’s United Marine Marching Band and reportedly challenging the current Drum Major for their position.
I waited a bit longer then opened my mouth…
Sturdlan said, “Fine…” he started to walk free. Nat increased the pressure of her grip. Sturdlan winced, nearly going down on his knees.
I said, “That’s not the phrase I was looking for, Mr. Turdland. Perhaps you’ve forgotten. I only wanted to hear two words: ‘I accept.’” I shot Nat a glance. She eased off a bit and he started breathing again. He remained silent. Nat increased the pressure. He started to pant.
A few moments later, after sagging, he growled, then managed, “I. Accept.” He paused, adding, “Grud…”
Nat squeezed hard enough for me to hear a pop. He screamed and started to collapsed. Nat held him up, then twisted his elbow. I heard another pop and he gasped. When she released him, he went to his knees and his hands, head hanging between his shoulders. He muttered something I didn’t appreciate. “What was that?” I said.
Nat took a step back to him. He hastily said, “Nothing! Nothing!” She leaned in and he winced. She said, “Probably shouldn’t continue trying to mutter sweet-little-nothings again, eh? Boy?” He managed to nod without passing out. Nat grinned, kissed me on the cheek, and followed the rest of the herd of family.
I said, “So, how about we arrange an itinerary that will feature Roza instead of your somewhat…how can I say this and offend you most…childish, simplistic, and meaningless trash?”
“It’s what people want!” they said, struggling to their feet. The air around them flickered and the image of a purple baboon formed around Sturdlan Vilbix. The eyes grew wide the baboon exclaimed, “That’s not what’s supposed to happen!”
I nodded. “Rosa probably wasn’t supposed to share her own music, either. Nevertheless, it will.” Sturdlan glared. I said, “It’s a good thing you’ve got a smaller, but reasonable venue to share your music in, generously sponsored by Jax Lunar Lumber.” I grinned.
“Over my dead body!” Sturdlan shouted, surging to his feet. The effect without his image enhancement was less than threatening; thought worrisome even so, mostly because his face had changed color as his blood pressure soared, and I was pretty sure he carried concealed weapons. I passed him the Lunar ordinance regarding unregistered firearms as enforced on the Moon by all signatories – which currently included all of the nation states from Earth with either single-nation colonies or cooperative colonies.
“That’s the penalty for anyone who chooses to take out any one of the weapons recorded on your person or concealed in various pieces of luggage…”
“You can’t…”
I leaned in, “You might want to read through Lunar Law, Mr. Turdland.” I turned and walked away. I turned back, “Just to show you there’s no hard feelings, the venue you’ve been offered is owned by Jax Lunar Lumber, Limited Liability Lunar Company.” I turned and headed own. I was under no illusions that I had won anything but a brief reprieve from conflict between myself, family, and this man.
Resources: The Moon Trees, https://www.urbanforestdweller.com/we-almost-forgot-about-the-moon-trees/ ; https://www.space.com/moon-colonists-lunar-lava-tubes.html
Image: fabricated by me using two public domain images.
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