“S-i-r…” The smile was hardening in place.
“Look. Pretend that I came from another planet. What is a ‘zero priority rating’?”
“Another — oh! I know you!” She looked off to the left. “Sonya — come over here a second. You’d never guess who…” Another face crowded the cube, a vapid blonde girl whose smile was twin to the other nurse’s. “Remember? On the stat this morning?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “One of the soldiers — hey, that’s really max, really max.” The head withdrew.
“Oh, Mr. Mandella,” she said, effusive. “No wonder you’re confused. It’s really very simple.”
“Well?”
“It’s part of the Universal Medical Security System. Everybody gets a rating on their seventieth birthday. It comes in automatically from Geneva.”
“What does it rate? What does it mean?” But the ugly truth was obvious.
“Well, it tells how important a person is and what level of treatment he’s allowed. Class three is the same as anybody else’s; class two is the same except for certain life extending—”
“And class zero is no treatment at all.”
“That’s correct, Mr. Mandella.” And in her smile was not a glimmer of pity or understanding.
“Thank you.” I disconnected. Marygay was standing behind me, crying soundlessly with her mouth wide open.
I found mountaineer’s oxygen at a sporting goods store and even managed to get some black-market antibiotics through a character in a bar downtown in Washington. But Mom was beyond being able to respond to amateur treatment. She lived four days. The people from the crematorium had the same fixed smile.
I tried to get through to my brother, Mike, on the Moon, but the phone company wouldn’t let me place the call until I had signed a contract and posted a $25,000 bond. I had to get a credit transfer from Geneva. The paperwork took half a day.
I finally got through to him. Without preamble:
“Mother’s dead.”
For a fraction of a second, the radio waves wandered up to the moon, and in another fraction, came back. He started and then nodded his head slowly. “No surprise. Every time I’ve come down to Earth the past ten years, I’ve wondered whether she’d still be there. Neither of us had enough money to keep in very close touch.” He had told us in Geneva that a letter from Luna to Earth cost $100 postage-plus $5,000 tax. It discouraged communication with what the UN considered to be a bunch of regrettably necessary anarchists.
We commiserated for a while and then Mike said, “Willy, Earth is no place for you and Marygay; you know that by now. Come to Luna. Where you can still be an individual. Where we don’t throw people out the airlock on their seventieth birthday.”
“We’d have to rejoin UNEF.”
“True, but you wouldn’t have to fight. They say they need you more for training. You could study in your spare time, bring your physics up to date — maybe wind up eventually in research.”
We talked some more, a total of three minutes. I got $1000 back.
Marygay and I talked about it through the night. Maybe our decision would have been different if we hadn’t been staying there, surrounded by Mother’s life and death, but when the dawn came the proud, ambitious, careful beauty of Columbia had turned sinister and foreboding.
We packed our bags and had our money transferred to the Tycho Credit Union and took a monorail to the Cape.
“In case you’re interested, you aren’t the first combat veterans to come back.” The recruiting officer was a muscular lieutenant of indeterminate sex. I flipped a coin mentally and it came up tails.
“Last I heard, there had been nine others,” she said in her husky tenor. “All of them opted for the moon … maybe you’ll find some of your friends there.” She slid two simple forms across the desk. “Sign these and you’re in again. Second lieutenants.”
The form was a simple request to be assigned to active duty; we had never really gotten out of the Force, since they extended the draft law, but had just been on inactive status. I scrutinized the paper.
“There’s nothing on this about the guarantees we were given at Stargate.”
“That won’t be necessary. The Force will—”
“I think it is necessary, Lieutenant.” I handed back the form. So did Marygay.
“Let me check.” She left the desk and disappeared into an office. After a while we heard a printer rattle.
She brought back the same two sheets, with an addition typed under our names:
GUARANTEED LOCATION OF CHOICE [LUNA] AND ASSIGNMENT OF CHOICE [COMBAT TRAINING SPECIALIST].
We got a thorough physical checkup and were fitted for new fighting suits, made our financial arrangements, and caught the next morning’s shuttle. We laid over at Earthport, enjoying zero gravity for a few hours, and then caught a ride to Luna, setting down at the Grimaldi base.
On the door to the Transient Officers’ Billet, some wag had scraped “abandon hope all ye who enter.” We found our two-man cubicle and began changing for chow.
Two raps on the door. “Mail call, sirs.”
I opened the door and the sergeant standing there saluted. I just looked at him for a second and then remembered I was an officer and returned the salute. He handed me two identical faxes. I gave one to Marygay and we both gasped at the same time:
***ORDERS***ORDERS***ORDERS***
THE FOLLOWING NAMED PERSONNEL:
Mandella, William 2LT [11 575 278] COCOMM D CO GRITRABN AND
Potter, Marygay 2LT [17 386 907] COCOMM B CO GRITRABN
ARE HEREBY REASSIGNED TO:
LT Mandella: PLCOMM 2 PL STFTHETA STARGATE
LT Potter: PLCOMM 3 PL STFTHETA STARGATE.
DESCRIPTION OF DUTIES:
Command infantry platoon in Tet-2 Campaign.
THE ABOVE NAMED PERSONNEL WILL REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO GRIMALDI TRANSPORTATION BATTALION TO BE MANIFESTED TO STARGATE.
ISSUED STARGATE TACI3D/1298-8684-1450/20 Aug 2019 SG:
BY AUTHO STFCOM Commander.
***ORDERS***ORDERS***ORDERS***
“They didn’t waste any time, did they?” Marygay said bitterly.
“Must be a standing order. Strike Force Command’s light-weeks away; they can’t even know we’ve re-upped yet.”
“What about our…” She let it trail off.
“The guarantee. Well, we were given our assignment of choice. Nobody guaranteed we’d have the assignment for more than an hour.”
“It’s so dirty.”
I shrugged. “It’s so army.”
But I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were going home.
LIEUTENANT MANDELLA
2024–2389 A.D.
1
“Quick and dirty.” I was looking at my platoon sergeant, Santesteban, but talking to myself. And anybody else who was listening.
“Yeah,” he said. “Gotta do it in the first coupla minutes or we’re screwed tight.” He was matter-of-fact, laconic. Drugged.
Private Collins came up with Halliday. They were holding hands unselfconsciously. “Lieutenant Mandella?” Her voice broke a little. “Can we have just a minute?”
“One minute,” I said, too abruptly. “We have to leave in five, I’m sorry.”
Hard to watch those two together now. Neither one had any combat experience. But they knew what everybody did; how slim their chances were of ever being together again. They slumped in a corner and mumbled words and traded mechanical caresses, no passion or even comfort. Collins’s eyes shone but she wasn’t weeping. Halliday just looked grim, numb. She was normally by far the prettier of the two, but the sparkle had gone out of her and left a well-formed dull shell.