"Jan," a newscaster back at the main office enquired, "we've heard that Governor Whiting is personally contacting each of the vital industries to ask them to work together to formulate some sort of command structure so that productivity can continue. Have you seen or heard any evidence of that?"
"I have heard that Governor Whiting has contacted some of the old lower level supervisory staff that used to assist on the factory floor," the reporter replied. "As to what was said and how effective it has been moving things along, I haven't been able to develop any information regarding that."
"They're never gonna get those fucking places running," Belinda predicted gloomily. "Everyone's gonna be fighting over who gets to give the orders and no one's gonna do the work. They'll be rioting in them places in two days."
"They'll send the MPG in to take over the place if they don't get their shit together," Matt said. "That's a munitions factory. We're gonna need the bullets and shells that that place makes."
"Hopefully it won't come to that," Jeff said. "The MPG has better things to do than babysit a bunch of fucking whiny employed fucks that want to be in charge."
"What about you?" Matt asked. "What're you gonna do now? You gonna just sit around and live off the unemployment some more or are you gonna go out and get one of them jobs that they're offering?"
"I don't know, man," he said with a shrug. "I'm kinda just enjoying watching the show go on, you know what I mean? If nothing else, we tweaked WestHem's ass pretty good with this one."
"Yep," Matt said. "We tweaked them all right. But if we want to keep tweaking them we're gonna have to do more than sit here and watch the show. This is the chance to get a real job, to earn some real money. I'm gonna take it."
"Yeah? What are you gonna do? Go work in the fuckin munitions factory? Or are you gonna go work in the greenhouses picking fuckin tomatoes or something?"
"Neither," he told him. "I'm gonna sign up for the MPG."
"The MPG?" Jeff asked incredulously. "You're gonna join the fuckin army? Are you dusted?"
He shook his head. "I want to help fight this war," he said. "I really think that we have a good chance of staying independent if we get enough people to sign up. I voted yes and I'm gonna go help fight those Earthling fucks. I want to be part of it."
"Part of it?" Jeff said. "You are fucking dusted. What if you get killed, man? Those WestHem marines aren't gonna be shooting training rounds when they land down here and try to take these cities back. They gonna be playing for keeps."
"And so will I," Matt told him.
Jeff shook his head, half amused, half disgusted with his friend's willingness to throw himself into the fray. "I just don't get you sometimes, man," he said. "After living in this ghetto all your fuckin life, you..."
"Don't you see," he interrupted, "that's exactly why I'm doing it. I've lived in this fucking neighborhood all of my life, without any hope of ever escaping it thanks to those WestHem fucks and their corporations. Only now, there is hope to get out of here. Somebody has to fight for it though or the hope is going to be gone in about twelve weeks or so. If we win this thing, this planet will be free forever. This war will go down in history as the Martian Independence War, something that they'll talk about in history for the next two thousand years." He paused, giving a little shrug. "I want to be part of that. I want my descendents to be able to say that their dad or their granddad or their great fucking granddad fought in it."
A change underwent Jeff's face as Matt explained himself, a subtle shift from disgust to understanding. It was a change that Belinda, even in her drunken state, instantly picked up on.
"Oh my fucking God," she said dramatically. "Look at this shit. He's got you actually thinking about that shit now, doesn't he?"
"He does make a very good point," Jeff admitted, almost reluctantly.
"So now you're gonna go out and sign up to get killed by the WestHems too? Is that what you're saying? You want to die alongside him, or end up in some shithole prison when they take this place back?"
"I didn't say anything like that," he said defensively. "I just said he made a good point."
"I got a news flash for you, moron," Belinda said, spilling a little bit of her Fruity down her arm she was so excited. "We're not going to win this war. There is no way that the Earthlings are going to let us keep this planet. We surprised them a little bit the other day, that's true, but they're going to jack this planet back from the MPG as soon as they land. This isn't going to go down in history as no fuckin Martian Independence War because we ain't gonna win. They're gonna say it's an uprising that they put down and no one will even remember it twenty years from now. And if you two don't fuckin know that then you're even stupider than you look."
"And so what are you going to do?" Jeff asked his wife. "Just sit here through the whole thing and drink Fruity?"
"Goddamn right that's what I'm gonna do," she said. "That's what my life consists of. I'm vermin, just like you two. Only I'm gonna be a living, free vermin when this little war is over and we have marines occupying our city. Nothing ever fucking changes around here. You're stupid if you think that it does."
Matt had heard just about enough. He swallowed the remainder of his own bottle and stood up. "Well you two can sit here and argue about it if you want, I'm going to sign up. Time's a wasting."
"Good," Belinda nearly spat, "and take your fuckin perfect world ideas with you. Maybe we'll come visit you in prison when this is all over."
He ignored her, heading for the apartment door. He didn't make it three steps before Jeff stood up from his own chair.
"Wait up a second," he told him. "I'll go with you."
"You'll do what?" Belinda screamed at him. "You are not going with him! You ain't gonna get your stupid ass killed before I get knocked up and have my baby! I ain't gonna live in this fuckin one bedroom apartment all my life!"
"That's why I'm going with him," Jeff said calmly, grabbing his PC and his cigarettes. "So you won't have to. C'mon, let's go."
The nearest MPG recruiting office was forty blocks away, in the south portion of Helvetia Heights. They rode the public transit train there, utilizing one of the transport tokens that came with their monthly welfare allotment. They stepped off at the nearest station nervously, knowing that they were now deep in enemy gang territory, an act that could easily lead to their deaths if they were discovered.
Sure enough, they made it no more than two blocks from the station before a group of Thrusters stepped out of the lobby of a public housing building and blocked their path. There were six of them, all young, dangerous looking, hardened veterans. They surrounded them menacingly, eyeing the Capitalist tattoos on their quarry's arms, their hands playing in their waistbands where their guns would be holstered.
"A little out of your turf?" one of them, the apparent leader of the group, inquired plainly, his face expressionless.
Neither Jeff nor Matt said anything, both knowing that they were caught, neither wanting to give their foes the satisfaction of hearing them whine.
The leader continued to stare at them, his hand continuing to fondle the concealed handgun. "You got a lot of balls just walking around over here like this," he told them. "A lot of fucking balls. Where you heading?"
They remained silent, both glaring defiantly at the faces around them.
"Let's take 'em around the back and pop 'em," one of the younger members suggested.
"Yeah," another put in, "then we'll drag their fucking bodies back to the border tonight and dump 'em."
"We might just do that," the leader said thoughtfully. He took a step closer to Jeff, fingering the tattoo on his arm. He then looked over at Matt's. "You're retired?" he asked.