Greenies

absorbed Lon's vow and took comfort from it.

For the next two hours they stayed there, watching the landing craft sit on the Martian surface, growing bored, restless, and longing for the safety of their base and the promised beer, cigarette, alcohol, and bonghit party they'd been promised. Their conversation was sparse and that which did occur remained confined to non- controversial subjects. Finally, the moment they had been waiting for occurred.

'There's heat showing from the thrusters on the landing craft,' Lisa reported as engine after engine lit up blue in the infrared.

'Yep,' Lon said. 'They're getting ready to launch. Jeffy, be sure to get video of it. Command wants to put the shots on MarsGroup.'

'Right,' Jefferson said.

It took nearly another hour before the first ship lifted off. It was at the front of the formation, one of the armor carriers. The blue of the engine outlets flared bright white. Smoke and dust billowed up from underneath. A dull roar reached their ears, becoming louder as the craft rose awkwardly into the sky. When it reached two thousand meters above ground level it turned, orienting itself to a westerly heading — a heading that kept it away from Eden. It's main engine in the rear lit up and the craft streaked upward. Before it even had a chance to disappear from sight, the next landing craft — the one that had been directly behind it, rose into the air to start its own launch sequence.

In all it took forty-five minutes to launch all of the landing craft. They streaked upward one by one and disappeared, leaving nothing but a few smashed pieces of armor and patches of fused Martian sand to mark where they'd been.

The ground combat troops were not the only ones to benefit from the benevolence of the Eden Police Department and the fledgling Martian government in regards to alcohol and tobacco. The flight crews and all the maintenance technicians who worked on the aircraft they flew had been gifted with a bounty of thirty-six cases of beer, nineteen cases of Fruity, and sixty-three cartons of cigarettes to supply their after-action party. It took place in the aircraft maintenance hanger just adjacent to the airlocks. By order of Major Frank Jorgenson, every member of the attack squadron was ordered to stand down all tasks for the next twenty-four hours. No planes would be worked on or flown, not even to change a tire or to check fluid levels.

'Party hard, people,' he'd ordered as he'd taken the first ceremonial sip from a Fruity bottle and followed it up with a huge bonghit from an electric injector bong. 'You've all earned it.'

They took his orders to heart. By sunset that night every last member of the squadron was intoxicated to some degree and the mood — while a bit darkened by General Jackson's unpopular order and by the knowledge that the WestHems would be back — was quite jovial. MarsGroup was playing on all the video screens, including the huge main screen in the center of the room that was usually reserved for flight status and maintenance status of the individual aircraft and their respective crew and current flight assignments. When the first shots came in of the WestHem landing craft blasting off the Martian surface, heading back up into orbit, the cheer that erupted was deafening.

'That is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life,' Brian Haggerty proclaimed as he saw the shot replayed for the third time. 'It's better than eighteen year old pussy!'

'Fuckin' aye,' replied Matt Mendez, who was sitting next to him and swilling down his seventh beer of the night. 'And we helped send those motherfuckers back up there. You and me and that fuckin' AT cannon on the belly of number 06-423.'

'I'll smoke to that!' Brian said, giving his sis a quick high five and then sucking up the better part of two bonghits at once.

They were sitting near the center of the room, splayed across the forks of an electric bomb-carrying cart that was currently empty of bombs. Both of them had women sitting next to them — Brian a systems operator for one of his fellow pilots and Matt a fuel transfer technician who worked in the sector responsible for their aircraft. Both were thinking that their prospects for some intimate companionship after the party were looking pretty good, although Matt was feeling a bit self-conscious since the woman he was with was six years older than him and had never been vermin or been with vermin. Still, she seemed receptive to every advance he'd thrown so far and was looking at him in a way that was damn close to worshipful.

'General Jackson and Governor Whiting,' proclaimed the MarsGroup reporter narrating the story, 'are both viewing the departure of the WestHem landing groups as a triumph of Martian military might and ingenuity over a superior power, as a battle won in this struggle for independence. And indeed that is what it seems on the surface. Still, many Martians — particularly those in the MPG who helped facilitate this victory — are having grave reservations over the cease-fire order issued by General Jackson. It is felt, almost to a person, that this failure to carry home the attacks so brilliantly fomented since the WestHem landings may have some rankin' consequences if and when the marines return to the surface.'

There followed a serious of interviews with New Pittsburgh area troops — most from the 3^rd and 6^th ACR — regarding their feelings about the cease-fire. Most of the interviewees expressed a deep admiration for General Jackson but puzzlement, even anger, over what was considered a grave mistake.

'It's like victory was in our grasp and shit,' said one young tank driver. 'And now he's like choking at the vital moment.'

'It's like he thinks it's over and shit,' said another ACR member, this one an AT gunner. 'Them motherfuckers is gonna come back at us.'

'It's seditious for them to air this shit,' said Brian, shaking his head in consternation. 'I mean, what they're saying is true, but they shouldn't be putting it out for everyone to see. We're at war here! They're giving aid to the fuckin' enemy!'

'I must disagree,' said Matt's prospect for the night. Her name, interestingly enough, was Surrender.

'What?' he asked, glaring at her.

'With all due respect,' she told him. 'They're only reporting in the manner that a truly free press should report. Whitewashing over the facts and distorting the stories to make your side seem the sure victor is what the WestHems are doing. It's part of what led to their defeat in the first place.'

'Huh?' Brian and Matt said together.

'Where you getting this shit from?' Brian demanded.

'I have a masters degree in human history from UME,' she said, blushing a little. 'I try to keep that to myself most of the time but when someone says things like what you just said... well, I just can't help myself.'

'A fuckin' masters degree?' Matt asked incredulously, his intimidation factor suddenly increasing by a factor of ten or so.

'Sorry,' she said, her blush flaring a little brighter in the red spectrum. 'I hope that doesn't bother you or nothing.'

'No,' he said. 'Not at all. I've bagged many a masters degree bitch. A few PH-fuckin'-d's too.'

She patted his leg affectionately and then turned back to Brian. 'Look,' she said. 'You may think they're demoralizing the troops by reporting the truth, but what is actually going on here is unprecedented in human history. MarsGroup is not simply taking a side and disregarding everything that doesn't agree with the position they've decided to represent. They're actually sticking to the truth. The pure truth for the most part. People are upset by General Jackson's orders. People are worried about what the ramifications of this decision might be. People are worried about what's going to happen when the WestHems come back down for round two. They're not embellishing any of that, are they?'

'Well... no,' Brian admitted.

'But they're also telling the good to go with the bad,' Surrender said. 'They're showing the WestHems blasting back into orbit. They're showing the elation we all feel at having beat those prudes off of this planet. They're being honest, Brian, telling everyone what is really going on instead of using innuendo and disinformation to tell a story that will entertain the masses.'

Brian's jaw was hanging nearly to the floor. Matt's was down there with it.

'Sorry,' she said, blushing a little. 'I don't usually go on like that, but...' she hefted her beer bottle. 'You know?'

'Yeah,' Brian said respectfully. 'I know.'

'And look,' she said, pointing at the screen. 'They're telling the other side now. The side the WestHems are