Gatestown
Luna
Sol System
“It isn’t right,” railed Lieutenant Commander Conrad Neilson for the tenth time. The lanky pilot from Parliament on Everett II complained every chance he received at the retirement of the TCS Mackinac. The only event that angered him more than his ship’s benching was that of his own. Neilson, despite his Germanic name, was a mocha colored man in his early twenties. Like so many other pilots, he gained his rank as squadron commander simply because those above him ended up dead. “Of all the ships they could have sent to Mercury, why did they have to pick old Mackey?”
Major Brenell Zollern used his best Luyten reserve to hide the annoyance he felt within. As much as he liked Neilson, the man from the back of beyond in the Argent Sector whined far too often. “We should be thankful that Mackey is in a shipyard. We both know the reactor on her was long past some serious maintenance.”
The fact that the ship’s Head of Security knew about Engineering matters in such detail spoke of how bad the Mackinac needed dock time. Zollern imagined that the pilot’s real pain lay more in his own predicament. Like so many other pilots in the fleet, Neilson was stuck on Luna until the bureaucracy processed his release from service. He really should stop complaining; Gatestown is a fine place to rest and recuperate after too long in space—even if it took a while for one to adjust to the low gravity.
It was not Zollern’s first time in Gatestown, nor was it his first time in the Broken Thruster. It was an ancient pub by Lunar standards, dating back centuries. Unlike much of the city, which now sat on the surface of the crater, with a nice dome keeping in the air, the Broken Thruster was built underground, in some of the original tunnels of Gatestown. Above the entrance, the owner displayed a warped and corroded thruster nozzle off some long forgotten excursion vehicle. His last time on Luna, more than a year ago, the joint was packed full of naval personnel. Now, civilians overran the place.
Neilson pointed an accusing finger at Zollern. “And you! Confed benches its best pilots, and yet doesn’t put some old Marine out to pasture?”
Zollern shrugged. By the War’s standards, he was an old man. Zollern just passed the ripe old age of thirty. After his brief stint with ground pounding Marines many years ago, he considered himself lucky to reach even this age. He very nearly ended up another statistic on the ruined plains of Repleetah. His left eye itched whenever he thought of that place. No, not his current left eye, but his original, the one he lost when a well-placed slash of a Kilrathi’s paw nearly took off his head. The doctors said it was impossible, but Zollern still felt the itch, even if it was all just in his head.
“No, instead of retiring you, they promote you!” Neilson began to fume. It was fortunate that he only downed one shot of fire-water; otherwise he might really be a hassle.
“I could have refused, but I figure that I’ll spend another year in space and get to retire a Lieutenant Colonel, with all pensions attributed to the rank afterwards. Assuming the War doesn’t erupt again.” The pension would not last forever. With as many veterans that survived, the Confederation government could not afford full, lifetime pensions. It was intended to be a helping hand as the servicemen adjusted to civilian life. As a graduate in criminal law, Zollern knew he would have little trouble landing a job as a police officer back home. Then, he would mostly have to worry about dealing with drunks.
Neilson eyed him suspiciously and spoke with a lower tone. “Then you think we’re not done with the Cats?”
Zollern took a sip of his rum. If any crop was meant to become liquor, it was sugar. “Not by a long shot. If the university taught me anything, it was that suspects don’t have sudden change in heart.” Even without drink in either one of them, Zollern’s speech was always clearer and more precise, even with his Luyten Deutsch accent.
Any other words he might have said were drowned out by disgruntled shout at the pub’s main viewer. Unlike the fleet, private establishments did not have limitless funds to invest in the latest in holographic technology. The flat screen did have a bit of a three-dimensional picture on it. Before this ceasefire, all the viewer would have shown sports of one kind or another, usually from a different world on each screen. Today, the main viewer showed a shot from Congress, where the politicians were still arguing over the ceasefire.
Zollern smiled when he saw the Senator from Ghorah Khar. “I met her once. It was before you came on board.”
Neilson eyed the Cat on the viewer with a little awe. “Is it true? I’ve heard all the Ghorah Khar Cats are blonde.”
Zollern gestured in indecision. “More or less. They are not so much blondes are they are a far lighter color than your average Kilrathi. The Kings certainly are not blonde.” He remembered them as clearly as yesterday. Both were veterans of Ghorah Khar, and both fought on the Chandler Front. The older of the two Kings did not trust a human as far as he could throw one, and this Cat could throw one across the room. After the sort of tricks Terran soldiers used on the Cats, it was no wonder he lacked trust. “She has the right idea, of course, about persecuting the war to the finish.”
“Of course she’s right,” Neilson agreed, louder than any discreet Luyten would have spoken. “Anyone with a gram of sense could see we should end this now so our children won’t have to.”
Several of the civilians looked over at the corner table to two officers shared. One of them, a man in a fine business suit. So fine that he must be a lobbyist or some political hack that actually does nothing to earn his pay. “Excuse me, but some of us would like to live in a world where half our pay doesn’t go to support the military-industrial complex.”
“Better half your pay to Terrans than all of your life under the Cats,” Neilson shot back. Zollern rubbed the bridge of his nose and hid a sigh. Here we go---
The well groomed made clamped his hands to his hips and glared down at Neilson. “You don’t think that the peoples of the Confederation deserve to keep what they earn from the sweet of their brows after such a prolonged war?” His emphasis on prolonged nearly landed the blame for the war last thirty-four years squarely at both officers’ feet.
Neilson nodded. “Of course. And once we defeat the Kilrathi, you’ll be free to spend if however you like.”
Zollern muttered a curse in his native language. “Neilson, need I remind you that I am still your head of Security, and can throw you in the brig if you start a fight. Especially when we’re vastly outnumbered.” He did not expect the younger pilot to listen, and his expectations were met.
“Do you have any idea what this war has been like for the civilians?” the man jabbed a finger at Neilson.
Neilson shot straight out of his chair. “That I do, sir.”
The man glowered down at him, despite Neilson proving to be a bit taller. “Have you seen the streets of New Delhi, or Shanghai or Chicago? Have you seen the boarded up shops, markets with nothing to sell because our entire industrial output in being sucked up by this war?”
Neilson shook his head. “I admit, I haven’t seen Earth. But I have seen the bombed out shops and rubble strewn streets of Talbot VII. Think you have it bad? Imagine what Terrans living under Kilrathi occupation endured.”
Zollern had to agree with his comrade there. No matter how bad free Terrans lived, it was far better than those under the Kilrathi’s claws. On Earth, there was work to be had, plenty of food, and one could move freely across the face of the planet. Above all, one did not have to worry about being killed simply because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time along with a pissed off Cat. Still, he could see how free civilians could grow weary of war without end.
“Perhaps if the Navy didn’t bomb the cities of our people, they would not be such a mess,” the civilian suggested.
Neilson bristled at the accusation, one that even Zollern felt the need to rise against. Before he could speak, his junior comrade took up arms. “Good sir, when the Cats build their defenses in the middle of our cities and use our people as shields, the fleet has little choice but to strike and prey for the least amount of civilian casualties as possible. If they meet us out in the open, then we could avoid the bloodshed.”
Zollern snorted at that suggestion. Repleetah was nothing but open when the battle there began. After a decade of fighting, it is mostly a dead world, with the remains of millions of soldiers littering the fields. Despite the nightmares it gave Zollern, his experience in ground combat were far less traumatic than so many other Marines and soldiers. “A more accurate statement would be that if we can meet them in the open, we can kill them easier.”
“Spoken like a true jarhead,” one of the civilians close enough to hear his soft voice replied. That would have sparked off a fight with many Marines, but Zollern knew he had nothing to prove. If the scars across his left cheek were not proof of his courage, then what was?
“Two generations of war have already turned us into savages, eager for more death and destruction.” If Zollern did not know any better, the self-appointed leader of these peace-loving civilians was a professor in philosophy. “Have you not had enough bloodshed?”
Zollern’s Luyten patience began to wear thin. “Sir, my entire graduating class at the Luyten Academy volunteered for service, and fought together on the same planet. As best as I can tell, I’m the only survivor out of a class of forty-three. If you think I’m eager to see this tragedy repeated, then you are mistaken.”
“What planet would that be?” one of the civilians asked. He was different one than the man who made the crack about jarheads.
“Repleetah,” Zollern’s single world did more to hush the crowd than all of Neilson’s bluster. The civilians began to mutter amongst themselves. By their uncertain tones, they might even regret confronting the two servicemen. Even among the most peace-loving liberals, the name Repleetah was well known. For them, it was a symbol of the futility of war. Zollern had to agree with the pacifists here. All Repleetah did was leave a lot of grieving parents and children who would never know their fathers. Confed should have abandoned the planet the instant it lost any strategic value.
With the civilians now on the defensive, Zollern pressed on. “Sir, you are old enough to remember a time before the war?” It was an unnecessary question as the gray hairs upon his head showed. Zollern had his own share, but the grays were most certainly a minority on his head. When the civilian nodded Zollern continued. “My colleague and I were both born after the war started. We have never known peace, and I have trouble imagining what it would be like. However, if you think for one second that we do not wish for peace, then you are greatly mistaken. I would like nothing more than to live in a world where my daughter would not have to live in fear of the day that the Kilrathi would land. We want peace as much as you, perhaps more for we have seen this war upfront, but we have different opinions on how to achieve it.”
“We already have, unless you already forgot,” the older man said, though with less authority than before. “The Prides are as sick of this war as anyone.”
Zollern gave a slight Luyten shrug. “The Prides consist of the Kilrathi female, and yes, they are tired of watching all they built being destroyed. However, the females do not fight. It is the males who fight. My platoon sergeant on Repleetah was a long time veteran, and a very good soldier. So good in fact, that he earned a name from the Kilrathi. The Kilrathi only give these sorts of names to enemies they deem worthy. MacPherson was killed in a skirmish around the same time I lost my eye.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, but you’re not the only one to lose friends—“, the civilian’s words were cut off.
“I’m not finished,” Zollern spoke softly yet firmly, the way an officer of the law would speak. It was something he learned both in school and as an officer of the Marine Corps, and very useful when he wanted to get the last word. “I happened a chance to meet the Kilrathi who killed MacPherson when my ship visited Ghorah Khar. We talked about MacPherson, and this Kilrathi had great respect for him. Do you know what he said when I asked about his death? He said that it was an honor to kill him. Now good sir, how long do you think a people of that mindset will endure peace?”
The civilian wanted to press his own argument, but could find no way to counter Zollern’s words. He obviously thought of many possible outcomes when he confronted Neilson, but not one such as this. His opportunity to back out came when some of his fellow civilians called him back to their table.
“You handled that well, Major,” Neilson said, impressed how coolly Zollern handled such a hot-blooded topic.
Zollern nodded. “You know, I hope he’s right and peace is here, but I fear he’s wrong and we’re all walking into a big trap.”