Reginald Feldman stared at his one-inch thick monitor and sighed. Mom was the ultimate patriot, or at least she thought of herself that way. Half the time she didn’t even know what she was defending, but she would defend the United States to the end anyway. Her messages always came in blue on white, with accents in red here and there.
    “And what’s this nonsense I hear,” the text read, “about your Martian leaders asking to secede? Ridiculous rumors, right?”
    “No, Mom,” Reg said, and the words appeared on the monitor below Mom’s, in green, “ ’fraid not. We’ve been denied statehood again, and so the government’s fed up with it. You know we can’t import or own firearms or anything up here. I saw the letters printed on the public monitors in Bubble City, it’s not a rumor.” He waited a moment, then said, “Comp: Send.”
    Reginald knew that there would be brief delay, more to do with Mom having to compose a reply than to do with the quantum computer’s connection with Earth, so he continued to read the latest e-mail from his girlfriend, Mina, that he’d kept open beside Mom’s.
    “Well, I don’t see why you’d want to own a firearm, you’d blast right through that silly bubble you people live in,” Mom’s blue text returned, distracting him from Mina. “Anyway, America’s always been good enough for us, I don’t see why that’s suddenly changed. It was certainly good enough for old Vincent Feldman, 18 generations before you. You know he risked his life to form this nation...”
    “Comp: Stop,” Reg commanded the computer and the blue text ceased. On earth, Reg knew smugly, there would be a send error; the connection was severed by the remote computer. “Comp: Reply. Yes, I know all about the Feldman family history. You’re forgetting that Vincent was a traitor to his nation, though, by being a Patriot. And I didn’t say I support the Martian cause, I just said that I understand it. I don’t know how I feel yet. It’s a difficult decision. Comp: Send.”
    Mom’s reply came faster than Reg had anticipated, and he regretted the state-of-the-art quantum system’s capacity for speed. The text was even dark red. “Reg, if you turn traitor, I’ll have you thrown out of this family faster than you can say ‘revolution!’ The disgrace, my only son siding with the Red Planet over his homeland! It’s bad enough you’re not a Marine like your daddy...”
    “Comp: Close Messenger.” Reg clasped his hand to his forehead in exasperation and turned away from the monitor. “I never said I was going to fight,” he muttered. “Even Mina’s on me about this one, and it wasn’t even my idea.”
    “Incoming mail,” the computer chirruped.
    “Yes, yes, I know,” Reg retorted. “Comp: Hold Messages, Forward Work Messages, I’m going out for some Bubble air.”
    “Error: Unknown Command. Please restate commands in standard format.”
    “Just don’t. Comp: Standby, Password Reactivation.”
    “Standing By.”
    Bubble City was what the Martians called the oldest section of the Valle Marineris Colony, where the original settlers had set up a small dome to live in, and built Earth-like buildings inside. It resembled a nice Earth suburb now, with gardens and buildings mingling together, unlike the rest of the colony, where each section served only one purpose.
    Reg strolled down a pleasant street, kicking at junk papers as he neared them. The public monitors displayed the news. The Martian leaders were threatening to go to war if they could neither secede nor get their demands, the French colonists were offering support at the risk of their own severance, and the Chinese, Japanese and Russian colonists abjectly refused to get involved and would shoot down anything that did not belong to them if it came near their territory. And there was Reg, caught in the middle of it. He saw an advertisement come on. “Show your support for Mars,” the screens flashed. “For more info, visit Marineris Hall or uw.freemarineris.org.”
    A sweet voice called out, “Oh, Reginald...”
    “Mina?” Reg turned around, puzzled.
    “I tried to IM you, but your computer was offline,” Mina said. Mina was typical of her Martian-born generation. She was tall and strong. For the most part, she was well formed and beautiful, but her fingertips appeared almost swollen. She hid this with long nails, a simple trick easily adopted by most Martian women. Her face was creaseless, because the Martian gravity had never pulled on her flesh as hard as Earth’s would have; she was pale, because she’d never faced unsheltered sunlight. Her long, light-colored hair was slightly wavy.
    Reg shrugged. “I was arguing with it again,” he explained.
    “You’re a tech, Reg, you shouldn’t have to yell at you’re computer so.”
    “It’s a computer, Mina. Think about that. I’m a tech because I threaten it well, that’s all. A good kick every now and then. Only way to make those things work.” He smiled, but the expression fell in an instant. “But surely you didn’t come here to see me...how would you know?”
    “Oh, no. That’s just what made the trip worthwhile. I had to deal with something in Marineris Hall.”
    Reginald looked around shiftily. “But... I thought you opposed secession.”
    “I do. That’s what I was doing,” Mina replied cheerfully.
    “Oh.”
    “You know, it looks like this won’t be resolved without a fight. Reg, why don’t you go back to Earth, before you can’t? I could come. I just don’t want you caught in the middle of this.”
    “Me? Go back to Earth? You know I’m afraid of flying, Mina, especially space travel. The only reason I’m here is because the pay was good. I just... don’t like the idea of all the things that could go wrong up there, especially with those computerized systems. I know them too well.”
    “Fine,” Mina said and kissed him lightly. “See you later.” She left cheerfully toward the residential area.
    Reginald decided to go to Marineris Hall. It wasn’t very far away, and now he really wondered what was happening with the seditious movement. There were monitors in Marineris Hall displaying various charts. The foyer was lined with a few protesters for each side. An Advocate for Free Mars accosted Reg with a print of an essay for his cause. Reg took it passively, skimming the text.
    “Protect your rights!” the activist proclaimed. Reg looked closer at the essay, wandered over to a bench, and sat down dazedly to read. The activist approached him again when he was nearly done, asking, “You on our side, friend?”
    “Y-yes, I think so,” Reg replied carefully. “You’ve got some very good points here.”
    “It’s good to see an Earthling for the Cause.”
    “But—can’t this all be solved peacefully?” Reg asked, still cautious.
    The activist frowned. “We hope so. The government sent in the terms this morning, we’re waiting for a reply. If Earth knows what it’s doing we’ll be free with no bloodshed. But you know we haven’t got representation in Washington? Here we are, feeding the U.S.’s economy almost single-handedly, and we haven’t got a single congressperson. And we have the highest taxes in the country, and we didn’t even vote on them!”
    “Yes, yes, I pay those taxes too, and I agree; it is absurd. I’ve supported our government at every turn, but this is just too drastic to me.”
    “Well, think about it, friend. There’s always an opportunity in Free Mars.”
    At that moment, the monitors burst into a news scene, and a reporter announced, “It is official: the U.S. government has denied the colonies the right to secede, war is expected. The colonial governments will announce their decision in a short time.”
    Reginald stood up and noticed a little black bag by the bench. It looked like Mina’s purse, and he found, upon further inspection, that it was. He decided to go to her apartment to deliver it. However, she was already at the door of the Hall again.
    “Reg, I forgot—Oh, you found it!” she exclaimed, but her eyebrows furrowed as her eyes fell on the essay in his hands. “Reg, you’re not joining the Seditionists, are you?”
    “I-I was just reading...”
    “Reg, I swear, if you join those Seditionists, I will never speak to you again. If you even think about it, our relationship’s—” Mina began.
    Reginald looked from the essay to Mina’s eyes and decided. “Mina,” he said, not breaking cold visual contact, “our relationship is over. I agree that it’s time Mars was free.”
    Mina gasped. “Why, you, you... You Seditionist! Goodbye!” she cried. She snatched her purse from his hand, turned on her heel and stormed away, stunned.
    Reginald didn’t realize until she’d left that he was trembling also. Such bold words, but now he felt wretched, weak. But he also knew that he was now committed, and he’d done the right thing, at least according to someone. He took out his pad computer and dictated, “Comp: Compose. To: Mom. I’ve made my decision. I believe in the Martians, Earth’s denied our needs for the last time. Don’t know if I’ll fight, but I know where I stand. If I’m no longer your son, I suppose I’ll have to live with it. I must do what I feel is right. I must follow in Vincent’s path. Comp: Send.” Reg exhaled heavily, and let his arm fall to his side.
    Sleep did not come easily to Reg that night. He assured himself that he’d done the right thing, but courage is often punished by conscious. He tossed in his bed, tormented by his own words to Mina and Mom, but there was nothing to be done now, he told himself.
    That morning, Reg stepped into Bubble City with purpose. If he couldn’t go back, he’d march forward. He stalked into Marineris Hall and asked the nearest Martian Advocate, “Who will fight?”
    “Um, I guess the Martian Aerospace Force,” the man replied. “They’ve taken over the old USAF office, down the street. The general there converted it. There might be some ground troops, too, I don’t know.”
    “Right, thanks.” Reginald’s face was grim. He marched out of the Hall in the same deliberate manner and came to the office, with a sign hastily posted, saying “Martian Aerospace Force: History Flown Here.” He hesitated. There was no one else in front of the office; it was too early. But the office was definitely open. He stepped inside.
    The general was sitting behind a wooden desk with various stacks of papers and pads and a rather outdated PC. His uniform had been stripped of all U.S. insignia. “Come to recruit, my boy?”
    “Erm, yes?”
    The general waved a pen over a form.
    “Name.”
    “Reginald Feldman.”
    “Age and date of birth, specify Mars or Earth time.”
    “29, August fourth, 2189, both Earth time.”
    “Special skills.”
    “I’m a tech, with a master’s in computers.”
    “We don’t have much need for that, I’m sorry. What we need are pilots, right now.”
    “Pilots?” Reg squeaked.
    “Shouldn’t be hard, it’s mostly fly-by-wire, we’ll train you for two weeks starting today.”
    “Pilots... Um...” Reg mumbled.
    “I’ll get you started.”
    The MAF had commandeered a training facility before the old government knew what it was doing, Reg discovered. There, Reg stared uncertainly at his newly assigned aerospace fighter. The very sight of it made him want to run away, but he stood firm. He would not show cowardice before a computer, or allow technology to overpower him. Courage, Reginald realized, is not synonymous with “fearless”; it is to know fear, and to look it in the eye. He got in the fighter quivering. He wanted to pound against the windshield as it closed over him, but he controlled himself. He had to face his fear. He had to be brave, if only for Mars. Finally, under constant instruction from the MAF officers, Reg took off, making the computer compensate for his trembling on the controls.
    And he flew.

as published in the Pohick Writer’s Roundtable Anthology, Nights at the Roundtable.