"But if she refuses, then our Marines will land on that planet and forcibly return it to the citizens of Mars and it's proper place in the WestHem system. Ms. Whiting," Williams stared meaningfully, "if you are listening, and I suspect you are, then I advise you to stop this madness before it goes any further. If you really care about the Martians, if you have a single ounce of empathy for them, you will stop this dangerous game before our troops arrive.
"Since I doubt that you will do this and, since I have received information that this broadcast may be still visible to the citizens of Mars, it is Whiting's sympathizers that I am now addressing. I'm talking to the men who have, for whatever twisted reason, volunteered to take up arms against WestHem at this evil woman's direction. Drop those arms now, right this minute, before it is too late. We have no wish to land on your planet and kill you; our quarrel is with the leadership you have followed. If you have not killed anyone, if you have simply gone with the crowd out of peer pressure, than you are in no trouble as long as your weapons are dropped by the time our forces land.
"Because, believe me, they will land and they will take control of the planet. I hope with all of my heart that this is a peaceful process, but if it must be a violent one, you stand absolutely no chance of preventing our re-occupation. None. I do not wish to see a lot of misguided people killed for no reason, so I plead with you, I beg of you, drop your arms. Do it now, today, this very moment, and do not pick them up again. That is the worst path that you could possibly follow."
That was the end of Williams' speech. The news conference continued on with a question and answer period in which the reporters began inquiries into such things as what the name of the operation would be and when bids on the advertising and marketing contract would be accepted.
Laura ordered the computer to reduce the volume. "She got in some good blows there near the end," she was forced to admit. "She must have a hell of a speech writer."
"Do you think anyone will listen to her?" Jackson asked. "Do you think it will change the vote?"
Laura smiled. "Maybe a little," she admitted. "But I still think that our citizens have had quite enough of WestHem and their lies. I think most of them will see right through that speech."
"But what about the threats?" Jackson asked. "Many will believe in that even if they don't believe anything else. It would be ironic indeed if our citizens voted for autonomy and then no one volunteered to fight for it."
Laura stared at him, anger now apparent on her face, anger that had not flared this brightly even during the worst part of Williams' inflammatory speech. "Do you really think that our citizens are that shallow?" she asked him coldly. "Do you really think that they would vote for freedom and then ask someone else to fight for it?"
Jackson looked back at her, upset by her anger but unwilling to concede her point. "I certainly hope not, Laura."
Martian Planetary Guard Base Troop Club — Eden
The smell of marijuana smoke hung thickly in the air, overpowering even the odor of alcohol and tobacco smoke. The ventilators in the room struggled to keep up with the outpouring but it was a hopeless task. Scores of off-duty MPG soldiers of all ranks, sexes, and ages were sitting at the bar or at cocktail tables; smoking and drinking the intoxicating substances, unwinding from the stressful twenty-four hours that had just occurred. Even though the bar contained about twice as many MPG members as usual, particularly for a weekday, the absence of any marine personnel was conspicuous and a constant reminder of what had occurred.
The speech that Whiting and Jackson had just witnessed had been played in the club on the large Internet screen above the bar; the sound reproduced perfectly by speakers at every table. During the speech itself the room had been eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the occasional outraged muttering from a soldier that knew what Williams was saying was a lie. But the final part of her speech, the part addressed to the soldiers in this room, had been met with stony, worried silence.
When the speech ended conversation erupted everywhere, much of it angry, some of it terrified and hysterical.
At a table near the rear of the room, Lisa Wong and Brian Haggerty sat together. Lisa was taking a thoughtful draw off a bong the server had brought to her. She had paid for the double hit with her debit card; forking over six dollars for it, and was now smoking the last of it. Across from her Brian was sipping out of a bottle of beer. He'd declined the marijuana, not caring much for it. The two partners had coincidentally run into each other at the front door of the club an hour ago and decided to sit together.
"Brian," Lisa said, "you're in a combat branch and I'm only in admin so I want you to give me an honest opinion."
"Okay," Brian agreed, already knowing what she was going to ask.
"Can we win this thing? Can we actually hope to defeat the WestHem marines when they land here? I mean really? I know most of what that WestHem bitch said was bullshit, but she wasn't bullshitting about them sending marines over here to take this planet back from us."
"No," he agreed thoughtfully, "she wasn't. They're gonna send a shitload of them here."
"So are we fighting a hopeless cause here? I don't mind fighting for Mars. In fact I'd be more than proud to do it. And since Whiting is opening up combat branches for women, I'll volunteer for combat duty." She smiled. "I should be able to get in given my background, don't you think?"
Brian nodded.
"I don't even mind fighting if the odds are way against us. I will gladly take the consequences of losing too. But are there any odds? Is there any chance at all we'll win? I don't want to sacrifice myself for no chance at all. I don't want to be a martyr if it's hopeless before we begin."
Brian picked up his beer and took a sip from it. He stared at his partner thoughtfully, thinking of a way to say what was on his mind. "I met General Jackson a few times," he finally said.
"Oh?"
"I did more than just meet him once. We were at a formal party for MPG promotions and I actually got to sit down and talk to him for a while. He's a very smart man. You can tell that just from a few minutes of talking to him."
"What did you talk about?" Lisa asked, suspecting that whatever they talked about had bearing on her questions.
"Military history," Brian replied. "Of course I never got much further than tech school. I'm not one of the elite that was allowed into our university system. But I have studied quite a bit of military history on my own. Do you know what General Jackson's degree is in?"
"Military history," she answered. "Any MPG member knows that."
"That's right," he said. "Military history is his passion. In the fifteen-minute conversation I had with him I could see that he was more than an expert on the subject. He is the authority on it. And do you know what particular wars interested him the most?"
"What?"
"There were three of them that fascinated him. Three that he told me he'd studied extensively. One is very famous; the war that brought the beginnings of what would become WestHem eventually."
"The American Revolution," Lisa replied. "The birth of capitalism and so-called democracy."
"Right," he said. "But the other two wars were very obscure conflicts. Most school kids today have probably never even heard of them. The first was called the Vietnam War. The second was called the Afghanistan War. Both took place in the second half of the twentieth century. All three of these wars have a single thing in common. Do you know what that is?"