“I need a drink!” A nice launch tanker of Marstini.

“Lets see if Armando’s is open.”

With Jenkins covering us we stroll the shops to Armando’s Cafe Lunar, the one place on Luna where Amanda can feel European and I can enjoy the best imported dusky red olives of a marstini.

It’s open and the bar is packed with media entnews crews from all the Solsys broadcast channels. Everyone in the room is stunned to silence as we enter directly beneath a huge vid screen wall at that very moment lit by our three faces framed with destruction bracketed by ricochets the foreground of a scene of crumpled bodies of Utah National Guardsmen. Faces before us rise and fall from screen to us in apparent disbelief. Then it is a rush of questions amidst a jostling mob of drunken pundits and anchorpersons.

“Mr. Dvorak Mr. Dvorak! Why did you cause this war?”

“What do the aliens want?” “How will you plead to the charges?” “Why don’t you surrender to them so the destruction will stop?” “Who do you think will win the Oscar for best actor next week?” We’ll pay any amount you name for an exclusive!” “Do you really intend to investigate God?” “Are you afraid of burning forever in hell?”

“I’m no librarian! I didn’t cause anything!” “You tell me.” “Fuck You!” “Fuck You Too!” “Roomey Bepal for her remarkable performance in O San Jimja” “More money then my suit has?” “Yes.” “Who wouldn’t be?”

“Now then, what do I have to say to get a drink in here? One launch tank of Marstini Armando!”

“And I’ll have Calvados.”

“Bark! Yap!”

“No beer for you Space!” I must be firm about this. I’ve been warned by the authorities he’s technically not old enough to drink on the moon. We’ll top off his suits hydration basin collar with water neat.

We claim a table at gunpoint near the back in a corner next to the kitchen hatches. Space marines carrying multiple weapon systems wait not for restaurant seats. The drinks arrive. Once again suit buys. Jenkins has an energy cocktail that sparks and foams, that he must drink through his goggled blast visor to protect his eyes from the fumes. Space has a bowl of cool moon water. Amanda’s suit, what little of it remains, takes audio control of our local zone and play-lists us a selection of rousing accordion songs. This barely drowns out the background roar of a bar full of excited drunks and their holo caller staffs blinking in or out.

The entnews multi screen update reports in several languages that the zubomilary council has cordoned off the area invaded by the UNG who have their contractors already repairing the damage. It has been announced that damage claims will not be disputed. They are being, as usual, very generous to the victims of their destruction. The spokespersons in Salt Lake City spin the mess back at me. I am to be charged further in Idaho with mass murder and assault as the cause of all the casualties on Luna is my refusal to surrender to their “Police pursuit” of me. I need more Marstini. “Armando!” I wave the empty launch tank. He has one in the sonic shaker instantly.

Jenkins keeps the ravenous reporters at bay with lowered blaster muzzle.

“Researcher Dvorak!” A no-G lab suit with a girl in it pushes the muzzle aside. Her lami’s flash “record” in academi-documentary format. She’s not media-tarian working an entvid news broadcast, she’s from the Governmental University Industrial Complex! The two holo callers on 'observe' mode indicate that: “Folney Shoreham, Sir.” is here on a grant. “I’ve been sent to you by the NN Taleb Anti-Library to assist you in encountering the unknown.” She’s quite cute. I’m falling in love with the unknown of her. I have so much to learn about her I get suit started with the tap of a lami tab, and her message previous plays out silently on a 3cm display strip. Lovely Folney is lami tapping also and her observers on 'holo call muted' disappear with a “bip”.

“My I liaise?” Her eyes say please.

My mouth says: “Have a seat. Would you like a drink?” She has a triple latte in a low-G sippy cup. Amanda calls for the Calvados bottle. Suits treat. Ooooh I predict cat fight. Sor Bon vs. Smith?

Space growls an alert at the heavily armed squad of space Marines who reinforce Jenkins’s perimeter by evicting the most immediately nearby tables of their drunken vid jockey’s. Another team posts at the entrance hatches. Chevrolet pushes through the burgeoning crowd leading a six person team dressed in very expensive invisi-camo armor that makes the scene shimmer as they move. When they semi encircle us the many cameras aimed at me vid only the nano-fiber bent mood lighting of Armando’s artful décor. Chevrolet orders Scotch and cola. We push two tables together. Jenkins sets up his OP by the piano out of grenade range so his cohorts head up displays are not blurred by the invisi-camo. I wonder how soon before he hauls his loungi-cliner out and bivouacs. Armando ushers a gaggle of waitpersons bearing trays of snacks.

“Paul.” Armando is looking very pleased for having a wanted fugitive hiding at his establishment with complete multi-media coverage. “Let me introduce to you, Jerome, my replacement.” Jerome does a bow towards us.

“Your replacement! Armando where are you going?” Amanda is concerned.

“I retire Mademoiselle. I have sold Armando’s Café. I am now a very wealthy man and I am off to live out my wildest dreams!” He turns and leaves through the kitchen door as if chased.

“Suit!” Chevrolet, Amanda, and I exclaim in unison.

“The probability that this place will be destroyed soon made buying it now a sensible investment.” Suits Carla voice tells us. Cheaper then paying the tab? “Ahhh…insurance…” Dawns the Mormon “settle-ers” We three think alike.

So as the owner of the pants that own this bar that’s about to be destroyed I can only think to do one thing: yell as loud as I can…

“Everybody tonight drinks for free!” To the cheers of those not on armed duty. “Free food for all who can’t get drunk yet!” “Free everything! The party is on me!” One sure fire way to be popular in a room full of bloging reporters is free booze and food.