Ron Collins is a long-time, bestselling professional writer. He has written hundreds of stories and they have appeared in such diverse homes as Analog, Asimov’s and a number of volumes of Fiction River.
In this amazingly direct story, Ron gives us a quick, and very pointed and powerful look at our own world through the rules of the Lunar Council.
Check out Ron’s great novels and stories at http://typosphere.com/
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Ken Venova—President, Head Designer, and Chief Bottle Washer of Kenova Industries—stood at the tiny Pick-a-Pack’s counter and scanned the package. He was hungry. A snack was in order, even if it was from this grimy little shop in the middle of this grimy little Lunar transport hub.
The machine beeped, and a red light flashed on the dirty wide screen before him.
CREDIT MIS-MATCH. PLEASE ENTER NEW CODE, the message said. THE LUNAR COUNCIL CARES ABOUT YOUR WELL-BEING.
He scanned again and received the same result.
A woman’s voice came over the intercom. “You need Earth Credits to pay for Sugar Dogs.”
Ken looked across the store’s crammed floor space to where an older woman sat in the control booth, monitoring security and ensuring the bots were stocking shelves properly.
Her job was unnecessary, but studies showed customers felt better with a human in the area.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he said to her.
He focused on his optical clock. He had five minutes to get to the launch tube.
“No, sir,” the woman said. “You can’t use LC to buy those.”
LC—Lunar Credits—were something Ken had plenty of, considerably more than he needed to satisfy his craving for the sweet caramel goodness of the candy bar. His shuttle had just arrived, and he was hopped-up for a Sugar Dog.
EC, though…he’d only been to Earth once, and that was when he was a kid and his Mom had forced him to go to a place called Paris with her.
“I don’t have Earth Credits,” he said.
“Then you’ll have to buy something else.”
A woman about his age entered the store.
“Hi,” he said, perhaps a bit too brightly. “Do you have EC for fifty LC?”
“Sure,” she said. Then she saw the candy bar and her face darkened. “But not if you’re buying that. I won’t be responsible for you killing yourself.”
“What?”
“That stuff blows you up like a balloon. Before you know it, you’ll be a little doughboy,” she said. “I can’t support suicide.”
“But I’m twenty-three pounds here, soaking wet. Not even 140 on Earth.”
“It can happen just like that, though. I’ve seen it.” She snapped her fingers, then disappeared into the store, leaving Ken with the Lunar Council’s message flashing on the screen.
He shook his head. Leave it to the Loonies.
The Moon’s governing body was popular with locals because they were entertaining. They played hardball politics like it was a reality gig, preferring the other side look silly even if it meant they didn’t actually get their way. But they were viewed by most earthers as more of a kangaroo court than a government. They had idiosyncrasies, you know? Limitless ability to focus on senseless things. They were quaint. Like Canada, but without the beer.
The nickname Loonies was cliché, but just too convenient.
A few people said the Council was dangerous, of course, that their foreign policy was getting too aggressive. But those people also thought the president made a difference. Ken had better things to worry about than ferreting out which Loonie edict was in place this week, things like how he was going to sell three thousand conveyor systems to Dover Mining, an operation on the topside of Mare Ibrium. The survival of his start-up was at stake.
The idiosyncrasy annoying Ken now, however, was that he needed something in his stomach as he prepared for the most important presentation of his life, and that the Loonies had proclaimed sugary treats to be evil.
He read about this latest decree, but hadn’t fully understood its ramifications.
The Loonies wanted to fix obesity—which was considerable. A person’s base metabolism drops with low gravity, after all, and a calorie goes further on the moon. So the Council declared things like Sugar Dogs to be insidious pills of death. Of course, rather than outlaw junk food directly they merely mandated LC could not be used to purchase them. This tactic had the advantage of reminding people who bought Sugar Dogs that, while the Lunar Council cared, earther scum were, well, earther scum.
Silly.
He would have a good story when he got home, but he was running out of time now.
The Pick-a-Pack was the only convenience store in the coach-class terminal, and, while the halls were filled with travelers, he had neither the time to beg change nor the inclination to lose even more dignity in doing so.
Ken returned the candy to its cubby, looked down the rack, and saw a pack of almonds. No sugar in almonds. He scanned the package. The machine beeped, and a red light flashed. TRANSACTION REJECTED. PLEASE SCAN ANOTHER ITEM. THE LUNAR COUNCIL SUPPORTS ONLY LOCAL MERCHANTS.
“What the…?”
“Those are imported from California,” the controller said. “You need to buy something local to offset our trade imbalance.”
“Are you serious?”
The woman stared.
He looked around for something local.
Bumbling Loonie idiots.
Ken now had three minutes.
“What should I buy?” he asked the lady.
“Do I look like your personal valet?”
“I mean, how can I tell what’s local?”
“You could scan things until you find something.”
Ken fought the urge to scream.
“How about I give you LC and you buy something for yourself?”
“Are you trying to bribe me?”
“Look, I just want something to eat.”
“How about a moon rock?” she said, pointing to the trinket row. “Take something home to the kiddoes.”
Ken didn’t have kids, but he grabbed a plastic-encased piece of regolith. Thirty seconds later he was on his way, almonds in hand. The presentation filled his thoughts as he followed signs to the train. He imagined himself pausing before the big reveal to look Catherine Paulino directly in the eye. Dover’s Executive Director of Manufacturing was old-school like that, judged people by eye contact. He would have to be on his game.
He inserted his cube at the ticket booth, relieved when the payment finished processing.
He stepped into the security scanner that led to the launch tubes.
The machine beeped. A red light flashed. A warning beacon blared.
THE LUNAR COUNCIL CARES ABOUT OUR NATURAL RESOURCES. PLEASE REMAIN IN PLACE WHILE A SECURITY GUARD ASSISTS YOU.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Ken thought.
He frowned, then pulled the plastic bauble from his pocket. A line of small print flashed from the bottom of the security scanner’s readout.
This product has been taken from Luna and altered from its natural form. Possession of it will result in fines and incarceration.
His gaze bounced from the screen to the rock and back again.
He considered running, considered calling for help.
But it was too late.
Red lights flashed, and bootsteps of Loonie Law Enforcement bots echoed from down the tube.