[X] This idiot forgot to explain how his gun works! This is going to be hilarious! Kick over a table so you'll have some cover, and just sit back and watch the fireworks.
You waste no time when you see his finger tense, and immediately kick over the nearest table to provide some cover. No sooner have you dived behind it than you are joined by your old friend Steven Marslow.
But you have no time to wonder what Steve is doing here, instead of at work, because just as you get your head back over the table to watch, Dr. Follet squeezes his finger, pulls the trigger, and immediately...nothing happens.
"What?" the doctor snarls, his voice having completely lost the quaver it held before as he points his rifle up into the air so that he can rummage around in one of his pockets. "What nonsense is this? This blasted thing worked perfectly in the lab!"
"You forgot to explain how it worked, you idiot!" you yell over the table.
"What? That should be obvious! I have used an IV injection system to apply super-strength espresso directly to the hamsters' blood stream. With the hamster successfully over-clocked, I have then connected the hamster wheels to power generators to enable them to power the plasma rifle's electrical core! That allows the plasma rifle to draw atmospheric hydrogen into its core, and heat it up to beyond plasma levels with a series of integrated magnets and lasers! Anybody knows that! Or would you like me to explain how a laser works, too?"
At this point, the plasma rifle, which has remained totally quiescent up until now, abruptly activates, blasting a ravenous, unstoppable beam of plasma up into the air, and against the ceiling of the hab dome. Predictably, the hab dome's ceiling comes off second-best, and vaporizes with a very loud bang, leaving nothing but a slight blue glow between the atmosphere in the hab dome and the vacuum of outer space.
"Oh, good," Steve says, looking up. "It's nice to know that the Governor's muggleism isn't interfering with the atmospheric magcon generators."
"Er...were you worried about that?" you ask, feeling rather confused. Mad science is a pretty well-known phenomena on the Moon colonies, operating in such a way so as the make the flat-out impossible an everyday occurrence. Nobody really understands how it works, but, somehow, the belief of the observers seems to be a key element—if enough observers believe something will work, it does. If not, it doesn't, which is why mad scientists always stop to explain how their latest invention works before using it. If there is reason to worry that some of the mad science inventions that have made life on the Moon relatively comfortable and prosperous are going to be in danger of failing....
"Not really," Steve responds. "Just nice to see the system working, that's all."
"Hey, I heard you got hired by one of those Superhero-for-hire companies," you say, curiosity overtaking you, even as the noise level starts to ratchet sharply upwards as all of the other Town Hall attendants jump to their feet and start yelling at each other. "Aren't you supposed to be at work right now?"
"I am at work," Steve said.
"Oh?"
"Yeah," he says. You turn to stare at him, but he doesn't say anything more. Instead, he just smiles at you.
Cheesy bastard.
"You're the Governor's bodyguard? Making sure that he stays safe in case the Committee tries anything outlandish?" you hazard, but Steve shakes his head.
"Nah. That's the big guy up there who's laughing his ass off," Steve says, jerking a thumb towards the front of the room, where an overly large man is, indeed, laughing his ass off.
"Huh. Don't imagine he'll be keeping that job long," you say, but Steve shakes his head.
"Oleg's been assigned," he tells you. "There's nothing the Governor can do about it. Besides, all the other candidates are worse."
"Seriously?"
"Yep."
"Huh."
Aside from the fact that the Governor's bodyguard apparently feels that this whole thing is funny as hell, the rest of the meeting is rapidly devolving into chaos. The religious nutjobs are all standing around shouting at one another, the various mad scientists—of which there are quite a few more than you would think—are all pulling various devices from under their lab coats, some of which will likely work, and at least a few of which are statistically certain to simply explode, and you can't quite tell for sure, but you're pretty sure that those two guys over by the kitchens are busily emptying the hab dome of anything that even vaguely resembles beer. On the one hand, you can't really fault their sense of priority...but on the other, their timing probably isn't going to be very good. Over in the far corner, you can see somebody thoughtfully tossing a brick up and down, looking like he's contemplating throwing it, although you're not really sure who he means to throw it at. Come to think of it, you're not really sure where he got the brick, either—nobody is bringing clay up here to the Moon, so there shouldn't exactly be a surplus of bricks lying around.
Ah, well. That is a mystery for another time.
"So...trying to stop Dr. Ken from doing anything unfortunate?" you ask Steve, as you glance around the room again, trying to find the rest of the rednecks in the room before all hell breaks loose. This is more than a bit of a challenge, because they look just like ordinary people. They're just...you know...crazy. And assholes at times, but that's kind of normal. Everybody is an asshole at some point in their lives. Mind you, most assholes don't have access to nuclear weapons, but that's a different discussion.
"Nope. I don't think Dr. Ken even crossed my bosses' minds," Steve says, amusement in his voice. "You're pretty far off-base, by the way."
You turn to look at Steve, and then roll your eyes.
"Alright, asshole," you growl. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm stopping a bank robbery," he says.
"From here?"
"Well, I figure sooner or later the bank robber is going to realize that there's no such thing as a bank robbery acceptance form, and then he's going to start thinking about going back to the bank and trying to actually rob the place."
You groan, and let your head thunk against the bottom of the table you're sheltering against.
"Seriously?" you say. "But the teller seemed so...so certain."
"Eric...they asked you for references," Steve said. "We both know no bank robber in the world is going to admit to having robbed more than one bank."
"Uh...wait a minute, yeah they do. I read about how the FBI catches like a dozen bank robbers every year because they declare their income from robbing banks on their income taxes."
"That's on Earth, Eric," Steve says. "This is the Moon. We're not dumb enough to declare money as being from criminal actions on our income taxes on the Moon."
You sigh. Drat. Foiled again.
"And she seemed like such a nice lady," you moan, your head still resting against the bottom of the table.
"She was," Steve agrees. "There was a superhero on the way, and you forgot to disable the heavy machine gun that was overlooking the lobby. If you'd tried to rob the place, you'd have been shot to pieces."
"Oh."
"Look, Eric...this isn't your best day, and it's not going to be getting any better now that I'm following you around everywhere. Why don't you just watch the fight, and then go home? It's a nice, lovely fight. Gonna be lots of fun. Just the thing to make up for a spoiled day."
"What fight?" you sigh. "They're just all standing around shouting at each other. There's not going to be any--"
At this point, the sound of gunfire echoes through the room, and you pop your head up above the table again to see what's going on.
Sure enough, there's a fight.
It seems the guy with the brick finally threw it, but either through his being too drunk to throw it right, or through simple bad aim, he missed his target, and hit one of the religious nuts who'd been yelling about whether or not having a fully-automatic rotary shotgun in the sanctuary should be judged acceptable by American societal norms.
Predictably, the religious crowd has responded in kind, by pulling out their vast array of personal weaponry, and pointing it all and sundry in the room, often including each other (and, in the case of one particularly confused looking individual, at himself), and diving for the nearest cover. One of them—you think he's representing one of the various Baptist denominations, but it's hard to be sure--appears to have taken advantage of the confusion, and started shooting at his fellows on the way to cover. There's no way in hell he's actually going to hit anything, mind you—hitting something when you're not even bothering to aim like that takes some pretty decent marksmanship anyway, and trying to do it while both targets are moving just makes it even more unlikely. But it really doesn't matter whether he's going to hit anything or not--he's shooting, and with that many guns out, there's only one real possible response.
"That looks like Chris Hardesty," Steve says. "I go to church with him. Well, I did. Till he caught Pastor Jim's wife sleeping with his wife, anyway. Then he left in a huff. Tried to take his wife with him, but she wouldn't go."
"So...who's he shooting at?" you ask.
"Looks like Jim's brother," Steve says. "Huh. This could be a problem."
"You know," you say thoughtfully, "since my bank robbery is apparently off the table for today, I do have some time to take a look at this, if you want."
Steve turns, and gives you this look.
You shrug.
"Dude," he says. "My pastor carries a SAW when he leaves the house. I don't think that's going to be a problem."
You open your mouth to say something, only for all attempts at conversation to be completely obliterated when a deluge of gunfire breaks out. Dr. Ken, who is standing in the middle of the room with what looks like a large cup of espresso, trying to coax his hamsters to drink it, is tackled by the guy with the brick, just in time to avoid getting hit by one of the bullets that is abruptly flying every which way across the room. You'll say this for your local churches—they might not have the most forgiving hearts out there, but whatever they might lack in peaceful intentions, they more than make up for with firepower.
It makes you proud to be a Loony, it really does.
Within seconds, most of the room has begun to empty, as the bystanders, innocent or otherwise, start moving rapidly towards the exits. The only exceptions to this are you and Steve, who are safely ensconced behind your table, and a big guy in a long black duster and a black cowboy hat, who's carrying what looks like two Colt 1911s. One of the Colts has the word Pace stenciled onto its slide, while the other has the word Salve. Instead of heading for the exits, or even seeking cover, he is simply standing in the open, wearing what looks to be pretty high quality body armor, and taking careful aim with each pistol before firing.
Predictably, given the quality of the marksmen around him, the body armor seems to be pretty much a pointless vanity.
Huh. Looks like the Rogue Vicar decided to pay the moon a visit. Weird. You thought he just about never left London, these days.
This ought to be good.
****************
Two hours later, the gun fight is finally over, and you retreat from New Hong Kong, feeling somewhat satisfied—it was a very good fight—and a little stupider for having fallen for the bank teller's ploy.
But, hey, at least you found a good place to handle the banking for your moisture farms. Small business or not, you're starting to handle an awful lot of money these days, and if that girl can sweet talk you into walking away to fill out a fictitious form, you're pretty sure that she's smart enough to take care of your money.
Still, the whole meeting leaves you with more questions than answers. One thing is for sure, however. The Governor's plans are going to bring a tidal wave of settlers from California, New York, and all kinds of other places where they're just looking to take over the place after you and yours have done all the hard work of getting the Lunar settlements running, and profitable. And there ain't no way in hell you're going to let a bunch of money-hungry carpetbaggers come up to your moon, and plunder your cities. And if Governor Bergman doesn't like that...well...there are ways to deal with that.
You know. Like kidnapping. Murder. Assassination. Grand spamming.
This is a solvable problem.
The real question, honestly, is who you should be backing. You're pretty sure that just about everybody is going to want to do something about the Governor's madness. And you're pretty sure that this is going to take some united, concerted action to deal with. There's only four real power blocs on the Moon that can muster that kind of political clout. But even then...it's not going to be easy to stop the carpetbaggers from taking everything you've built. They're going to need all the help they can get, and these next few days could prove crucial if you're going to stop this arms control nonsense in its tracks, because each and every one of them is going to require cash, organization, and effective planning.
All three of which you happen to be able to provide.
Decisions, decisions.
On the one hand, you have the Committee for Ethical Concerns. As a growing small business, you've been part of the Committee for two years now, and you have to admit, it has served you well. The connections, the common market...the Committee has worked hard to make the Moon prosperous (although admittedly they've also worked just as hard to make it more than a little bit evil), and they've got the ability to raise cash like nobody else out there. Plus, they're probably the only ones ruthless enough to get the job done, which is going to matter a lot. Politics is a dirty business, after all. Best to have somebody who knows their way around the muck spearheading the efforts to stop this nonsense before it becomes dangerous.
On the other hand, you may be a small business owner, but you're also located a good two hours from the nearest settlement. This is pretty solidly redneck country, truth be told—your neighbors, your friends...they're all rednecks. Heck, even your own moisture farm has at least two buggies up on rocks out front, waiting until you can get the time to finish taking them apart and seeing what's wrong with them. You've got kinfolk out here, some of whom you're even on speaking terms with, and the rest of whom can at least be civil if the issue at stake is important enough. There's a lot more people like you than most folks think, even the ones living on the Moon...and the local rednecks haven't ever tried organizing themselves to make their collective voice felt before. If you can get them organized, you figure that would probably bring a good quarter of the current population of Mare Imbresium in on your side. That's a lot of votes—even the Governor would have to listen to that many votes. Organizing them could be tricky...but it could be worth it.
On the other other hand, there's also an awful lot of religious whackjobs on the Moon, and they're usually just about the most vocal participants in the political process. Too bad all the congregations hate each other...but you bet if you approached the pastors and the priests individually, starting with Father Richards, your own church's priest, you could probably get them all to pull together on this. For a while, at least, and a while could be all you need.
Decisions, decisions.
Well, thinking about it won't help anything. Besides, the choice is obvious. You pick up your com-caller, and start to punch in a number, when another thought occurs to you.
The whole of the Moon's settlements are built on mad science. Mad science only works if enough people nearby believe that it should work. That generally needs an over-abundance of alcohol, and a bunch of clever minds who don't mind trying some pretty outrageous things just to see if they'll work. These new settlers? They're really...not that sort of person.
Which means that all the marvels of mad science that make life on the moon could be about to go kaput.
Maybe you should be talking to the mad scientists, instead? After all, if their inventions are about to stop working, they're the ones who can probably sway the most people.
Damn. Now things aren't so obvious, anymore.
So who do you call?
[X] Call some of your fellow Committee members. Keeping you and your fellow Loonies' way of life secure is going to take ruthlessness, clear thinking, and lots of money...all of which the Committee possess in abundance. Your neighbors might not like it, but they'll thank you in the end. And, really, if the whole Committee were to unite on a project like this, who could stop all of you?
[X] Call your mother. As the undisputed matriarch of MacCall family, she's probably your best bet to get all your friends and neighbors on board with this whole project. Plus, it's been almost three weeks since you called her, and she's probably going to give you an earful if you wait much longer.
[X] Call Father Richards. You may be part of the smallest denomination on the Moon, but it's still a real denomination, with bishops and everything. Plus, if the Rogue Vicar is wandering around up here on the Moon, that could mean that you've got more than just a few tens of thousands of Californians to deal with, and if anybody could get him to talk, it would be one of his fellow Anglicans. You're not sure what could be worse than tens of thousands of Californians, mind you, but you're pretty sure that you'd rather find out now, than wait for it to blow up in everybody's face.
[X] Call Dr. Ken. You don't know how many muggles the Moon's mad science infrastructure can take, and you'd really rather find out now, rather than waiting for your hab dome's fission reactor to explode, or something equally disastrous. Besides, you haven't talked to the old coot in a couple of months, and it might be worth it just to see what else he's working on.
