The leg lengthening operations had been a success! I owe the doctors the full amount. This and the G weight stretching have added nine inches! I’m nearly my academy height. I’ll step from the landing chute tall and proud in a large size upgraded shuttle suit, fresh marstinni grasped securely. I see the adoring crowd of greeters, the cheering masses, and the straight true ranks of the militant librarians. A successful war is a wonderful draw. The great eight minus one will be there. Those senior Senior Researchers that control my report will be greeting me as an equal, a comsult. I feel myself too worthy. I’ve changed the course of history and the orbits of several of the moons of Jupiter. Worthy of recognition enough I’m sure.

Doctor Versmidgens tubular offices squeeze me exigently toward the base of the chute. I am the now taller stuffing of this huge sausage skin of a habi-tube crater baker.

‘’Will that be cash, credit, debit, charge, or exchange sir?’’ Her wet voice came at me from the right. She popped through a sausagey orifice with a splash of low-g surgery lubricant.

‘’Exchange?’’ What? Could I still escape what will be a very substantial billing by some trade?

‘’By your health chart I see that perhaps the left testicle would about cover a leg, some pituitary fluid for the balance.’’

‘’No I’m very fond of that one. But, the fluid...’’

‘’It’s a fairly painless needle, I’m told. Most are out cold before it’s actually inserted. It just looks so huge because of the dilated pupils. Center of the brain is pretty deep in there, you know.’’ She’s quite chatty. I’m falling in love with her. I can see the outline of her breasts beneath her well-lubricated surgi-suit. Only one thing could have taken my eyes from those fine breasts and it walked by right then, yes, a two-meter tall furry naked female human bunny rabbit. She had very fine furry bouncy breasts also. My new long legs felt good in this light gravity. I got taller in her gaze. The bunny womyn gave me a slow look up and down on her way through the red door.

‘’She’s a client in our body styling program.’’

‘’She wants to be a bunny rabbit!’’

‘’It’s one of the doctors most popular.’’

‘’What are some of the others?’’

‘’Oh, any ent media animae character, any historical figure that has been dead minimum a hundred fifty years, and all the special sub styles, dogs, cats, bunnies, fairies, elves, lions, tigers, mice. Lots of others. Bunny Love One is very popular with females aged sixteen to thirty two.’’

‘’How long does it last?’’

‘’Oh the treatment is permanent. It is laser plastic surgery. With the gene reconfiguration we provide a lifetime of style satisfaction. Would you like to see the catalog?’’ Too late! Oops, she had the graphics up on holo power presentation mode. As the parade of models sashayed between us my lovely sales nurse gestured each image along like the co-host of a shopping game ent show ushering onto the stage the products of my dreams.

‘’I’m not interested in a furry fetish style today. I just got back on long legs.”

‘’Yes we do a lot of those for you outer sys returnees.’’ With no more surgery to sell me it was time to pay the bill. The monets drained effortlessly from my accounts once suit cleared my DNA scan.

Six years is a lot of fads I’ve missed. No more long-term zero-g for me. No more sleep induced space flight. No where left to go but down to the moon. I’ve tried to keep up with the news, audio media played news and music mix the whole time I‘ve been gone. This permi-costume thing must have caught on while I was sleeping.

‘’Can I catch a taxi for Luna surface?’’

“No. There is no taxi service to Luna from here.”

”Oh.” What?

“Not since the revolution. We’re not zoo bums.” Her mouth formed into a shape that implied she’d eaten something sour.

Maybe I missed more than body moding.

“Of course you’re not zoo bums. What’s a zoo bum?”

“I thought you might be, oh, um, a zoo bum. I’m very sorry mister Dvorak. Since you want to go to the moon I thought...”

“How do I get to the moon? What’s this about a revolution?”

“You don’t know! Wow! Well you have been gone awhile haven’t you?”

She got a serious look to her face. She bit at her lower lip. I fell deeper in love with her. “The zoo bum cultists have taken over the Moon. They’ve dissolved the Luna Authority. Inner sys shuttles and handi-cabs won’t go down because they’d get confiscated.”

“But how?”

“You’ll have to go to Balance station. People are quitting their jobs all over innersys, using their prepaids to get to Balance then going to Luna on empty ore transporters. The zoo bums have been letting those through and they’re full of people going to join the revolution!”

I got my suit a few steps ahead of her. I had an ore barge schedule up, I had the latest news ent reports scanning for zoo bums or “zuboms” as my suit informed me is the correct spelling. There was much more there then I could read in this lifetime so I had suit start reading recent history. I need juniors, I need clerks, I need access to the main office. 'DENIED' flashed the holo call prompt display head.

“Holo calls to earth are down.” She saw the flashing notice. Her holo pager showed a head image that looked like Doctor Versmidgens. She tapped a lami and said she had “to go prep another client” for a bunny body.

I haven’t seen my old tube in the crater dome home for six years. It was all new when I left, rebuilt after the Maisey William explosion. I had suit call my tube COM line. 'Number invalid' was the response. I told my left suit sleeve to call every COM node on Luna till it got my tubes housekeeping system. I like my new shuttle suit, six years past has much improved hot wire no-g business apparel. My ass is full of memory like never before. I never thought I’d ever say that a man is only as good as the load in his pants. The power lami’s no longer chafe. I ordered several suits three years ago for open platform loading of the tech upgrades. The suit I left for Saturn in probably would melt down under these new interface specs. Suit tells me Zuboms are a new cult of the old religion type. It’s at the “active conversion cascade” stage of evangelical growth. Millions of people are joining the cult daily. A charismatic prophet has emerged in the west of NA proclaiming the dawn of a new personal knowledge of God provided by some mysterious aliens who are Gods messengers to humanity. These alien beings are the “Zuboms”. Those who join them in their special access to God are the “Zubom”. The universe is Zubom. We are all just Zubom and so is God. Great stuff for research. Sociopolitical upheaval on the moon is my cup of tea. Only three days fully awake and suited up and I’ve got my next report subject. Once inside the handi-cab I got the office on shaky holo.

“Moody! How are you? “ He looked like hell. “I’m fine Paul. Will you be coming by the main office some time soon?” It’s been at least eight years since we shared the same space.

“Right away, of course.”

“Um… Moody…. What’s my budget these days? I need a few juniors maybe a… Oh yes, couple a clerks?” A tremendous frown crept across his broad shaky holo face.

“Bad news Paul. You have no budget. Your expenses are frozen pending the investigation.”

“What? Saturn? The war? My accounting?”

“No, no, no, it’s the grand treason charges.”

“Treason!” Now he seemed to be enjoying himself. I got my suit searching court records and there it was, a months old indictment out of Boise in NA, I read along with Moody: “ ‘…Did conspire to overthrow the soltera sys legitimate authority in criminal concert with members of the terrorist organization “zoobum assimilators” or “Z A”…”

“You shouldn’t have helped them Paul. You’ve caused a lot of suffering.” He smiled at me and shook his jowly head.

“I was under compulsory sleep when this was filed!”

“If it had not been for your actions there would be no rebellion on Luna, no war in California, no soltera economic collapse!” He spit the words out at me through a huge jiggly grimace

“What are you talking about?”

“You could have stopped him! You had the chance. It could have been so different. So many have died that didn’t have to; millions, millions.”

“Who Moody? Who?”

“Who? Why Simpson Acca Buddha of course!” Hearing this name was a complete shock.

I needed some help with the moodiness of the conversation and so started to get a few more coms up.

“…It is very apparent in your own report…” He steels himself. “And I am obligated by law to report this contact with you and your current location to the law enforcement authorities responsible for apprehending treasonous terrorists such as yourself.” He cast this threat at me as his holo image faded beneath the deepening image of my old junior Demarist.

“Mister Dvorak how are you!? How is Space?”

“Demarist I need your help right away. No travel.” He looked young and tall and healthy. I can surely bluff him into working for free.

“Mister Dvorak, I have to tell you I’ve been promoted, I’m a Senior Researcher now. And…um…. well…ah…I have a research right now and… um….It’s you. Um you’re the topic of my report. I see you’re in a handi-cab halfway between the Medisat 12 and Balance.” His suit was so much hotter then mine. He was working his multi-lami’s off our holo call; he had at least six displays glowing that I could not read and 2 clear 3D map screens up that I could clearly see, a bright arrow pointer flashing at an icon tagged with my name. I felt a pang of techno jealousy. I struggled to get the main office on coms.

“Mister Dvorak…”

“You can call me Paul.”

I struggled to get the main office on my left sleeve lami’s.

“Paul I’ll be happy to see you and Space again soon, as the librarian tells me that you are about to be intercepted by the anti-zoobum blockade patrol.” He's got a Librarian working with him on research of me!

Space, oh Space. I’m so glad he’s at the cat station with Chevrolet. All my COM channels go crazy with static as a blast of jamming hits my suit. The handi-cab does a sudden pirouette of confused navs. Demarists image blurs then disappears in the shadow of the very large military vessel looming aside the distant glowing blinking billboards of Balance.

Well a free trip to Balance is not so bad. They’ve saved me the taxi fare. We are on a priority vector. The commander is sympathetic and has had them loosen the restraints. I sit in the jump seat behind the pilot next to the combat-techie.

“Where’s your little dog Mister Dvorak?” Pilots are sure the nosy types. “Oh! You know about Space?” We are famous after all, I guess; maybe notorious. “Sure! I was on mars for your first war.

“First?”

“First legal war I guess anyway.”

“How many wars do you think I’ve started?” “Four… five. Two are covered by the warrants we’ve detained you on, though I don’t know that you’ll have to be extradited.”

“Oh yeah?” A glimpse of light?

“Yeah. Boise is about to fall to the alien God lovers. The Space Patrol can’t send you to a place that doesn’t exist anymore. The government is gonna nuke it if it goes over and then your free.“ Boise destroyed or I go to prison, tough choice. I’m accused of treason against Boise NA?

“So where’s your doggy? OK I hope?”

“Is he wanted for treason too?”

“No! No, just conspiratorial support.”

That’s it! They want me to cause wars I’ll give them war! Boise wants to charge an innocent puppy dog as a criminal. “What’s been going on since I left Saturn?” I said this out loud in a way that must have made them think that they should tell me because they tried. Right up to the Balance Admin V.I.P. gantry they tried. I heard about the discovery of the rescue pod carrying the comatose Simpson Acca Buddha, his revival, then the arrival of the aliens who had rescued him from another dimension and sent him back to Solsys to follow him and spread their access to God that they felt we humans needed. There was war of course across civilization, the belligerent sides now down to the usual World Government located everywhere, the Zoobum followers on the moon southern Europe western north America and in small pockets everywhere since all religions are of course free to be supported by the government. The Mormons of west central NA have declared a regional succession they call Deseret and fight the Zoobums to the west and the newly created Hubbardland of the south west NA desert east of coastal California, sacred Hollywood threatened by invasion. Turmoil has reigned for three years now. Dazed people come forward everyday that say they have met the enigmatic aliens and had a visit with God both of whom for some reason they seem to be incapable of describing. Science is trying to study them without much luck. The aliens aren’t broadcasting God contact to the masses, just to a selected few in secret, who come out of it so scrambled that little they say makes sense. The anti-zoobums cry fraud and pray to their concepts of heaven for ammunition against this heresy. The Zoobums have taken over for the Government in some places and defend themselves effectively from the contra-fanatics that challenge them. Whew! The anti Zoobum patrol I am captive of is charged with keeping the Zoobums away from the transport vehicles that they are “so often commandeering all the time”. The Warrant Officer had my guards remove the sonic cuffs and we were getting quite chummy as the decomp door to the admin offices hissed open to reveal a sea of angry faces above heavily armed bodies, weapons of all trained upon us. They appeared decidedly hostile as the nearest stepped towards my escort. The inner door control lami panel was a smoky sparking sabotage victim. As we simultaneously signaled surrender with raised arms, all around us weapons systems raised to aim.

“Paaaaayyyyyoooooaaaaaalllllll iiiiiiiiiiimmmmm zzzzzzzoooooooobbbbuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmm” vibrates the bulkheads and deck plates of Balance enough to blur the scene for a moment as I am torn from my captors by my next latest captors and borne by hand bodily above this motley army of potential destruction. From a space marine I hear a whispered fragment: “…focoist suicide assault army…” I am turned by the militant mosh back in time to see the landing party of the Bearcat, all veteran space marines ultra trained by the Government, instantly convert to zoobum-ness, be welcomed into the mob and given back their weapons. The mass of combat system toting cultists under me winds from the docking port around the corner and into the next parking bay where a pressure hulled oar shuttle waits my being shoved through the hatch before uncoupling for the Moon to the accompaniment of another drawn out “Paaayyyyooooolllllll iiiiiiiiimmmm zzzzzzooooooobbbuummmmmm.”

So short of a stop at Balance station, no going to Utah, and I’m off with a free ride right to where I want to go anyway.

Strapped into a bucket seat. Good time to check my messages. Beneath ever watchful zoobum eyes I scroll the lists of blocked calls. Helen want’s to talk. Later. Chevrolet is on her way to the Moon with Space. Want’s to talk. Later. Demarist, Moody, and General Somebody. Later. Later. Later-est.

Holo message number 682 caught my attention with her gorgeous face. She explains that she is an unknowledgeist and that she doesn’t want to know what I know but what I don’t know. She studies not the unknown, the unknow. Once it’s known then she moves on to something that she doesn’t know or something that I don‘t yet know that I don‘t know. She represents the N.N. Taleb Permanent Government Anti-Library Database, which has no location and stores no unknowns.

“Of course how could you store what you don’t know!”

Everyone around me on this ore shuttle cargo deck nod knowingly. “In zoobum.” They murmur.

She feels very strongly that she should accompany me on my meeting with the “unknown”. She makes quote mark gestures with her fingers in the air.

Later.

Suit tells me that it has found my home tube systems intact. Only maint access has been allowed. New coms have been installed, the fridge quit, been replaced, the new decomp windows are caulked with fresh radiation putty. It’ll be good to be back to my old low-G air bed, which is also new cause I bought it yesterday to be delivered right about now.

I can’t resist this chance to learn about my religion. One of these combat chanters has to be a talker.

“So, tell me, why are you so heavily armed and ready to die for aliens?” I point to a random fanatic.

“They don’t understand us!” He gets bigger. I take that he means that they are misunderstood by every other human being. Or only several billions of them at least.

“Zubom is truth!” Some one of them shouts. “Zubstruth!“ They chant. This is a loud talking bunch strapped to the cargo racks in a rumbling pressure shuttle. “Zub is the vector to God!”

My new captors look like the characters of a bad futuristic apocalyptic drama entvid. Costumed by movie wardrobe department trying to imagine the stockrooms of a lunar mine supply/gun store. Armed most of them with good gear no doubt bought and delivered up from corporations on earth, likely ordered with the ease of pizza. The weaponry reveals that this group holds such firepower in large capacitor blasters that any sustained trade of fire would surely destroy structures to the point of certain depressurization. “Suicide focoist’s” suit calls them. Unorganized, unpredictable, lead amok by unspoken mutual agreement to spontaneous violent attack in defense of their common desire. They are happy to be killed as it is a faster way to get to where they want to go anyway. If they “convert doubters” on the way well so much the better. To be killed by a zubom is a direct vector to God, so they feel they are doing you a favor as they kill you. Gleefully. Giggling like drunken children. Reportedly. Otherwise very law abiding.

At Lunar Port arrivals ramp I was turned over to the local space marines and escorted home.