Free Chains of Command by Marko Kloos

news that make him feel like he’s tied in to the rumor network sufficiently. Mom uses her privileged Network access for military dependents to forward messages to the chief’s old shipmates, and we fill in the gaps whenever we’re down on Earth for leave. Everyone is starved for information down here. They all want reassurance they won’t die tomorrow or next week.
    We’re on our third or fourth cups when Chief Kopka’s place starts filling up with the first lunch customers of the day.
    “I have to go back to work for a bit,” Mom says. “I’ve been spending too much time chatting as it is.”
    “The chief is fine with that,” I say.
    “Yes, but I’m not. I have to feel like I’m actually worth the room and board, Andrew. Do you two want some more coffee? Something to eat, maybe?”
    “I’m good,” Halley says. “If I have any more, I’ll start humming like a rail gun.”
    “I’ve had my fill for now,” I agree. “Let’s give these folks their table back and go get some fresh air.”
    “Copy that,” Halley says and gets out of the booth.
    “Don’t worry about lunch,” I say to Mom, who collects our coffee mugs and wipes down the table. I feel vaguely guilty for having my mother clean up after me like I’m living at home in the PRC with her again, but she waves me off when I try to take the mugs from her.
    “Go for a stroll with your wife and let me do my job, Andrew.”
    “All right, Mom. See you in a little while.”
    We walk out of the restaurant, Halley in the lead as usual. When I reach the door, I look back to see my mother watching us from the doorway of the kitchen, a little smile on her face. She turns around when our eyes meet, but I can see that the smile doesn’t leave her face as she walks into the kitchen.

    “Look at them going about their day,” Halley says.
    We’re walking down Main Street, our romantic little stroll slightly encumbered by the alert bags slung over our shoulders. It’s a cool and sunny day, and the clean, cold air is biting my lungs just a little. Halley pats me lightly on the back when I cough.
    “Catch something from the boots at Orem?” she asks.
    “Nope. It’s the air,” I say. “Too cold and clean.”
    “Ah.” She chuckles softly. “I can’t decide whether that’s funny or sad.”
    “What, me coughing?”
    “No, your system so used to breathing shit. Think about it. Most of your life, you’ve been sucking down either dirty PRC air or the filtered and recycled air on spaceships. Your lungs can’t handle the clean stuff anymore.”
    “You should go to New Svalbard sometime,” I say. “If it’s still there after all of this. Cleanest goddamn air in the universe. The place is so cold that it never thaws, not even in their summers. It smells like absolutely nothing.”
    Halley smoothly maneuvers around a civvie family with two kids who are standing on the sidewalk in front of one of the shops. One of the children looks at her, mouth agape. Halley winks at the little boy and cocks an imaginary pistol with her hand. The boy’s eyes wander from her face down to the holstered pistol on her hip.
    “Don’t see that around here too much, do you, kid?” she murmurs when we are well past the family.
    “They don’t need ’em,” I say. “Hundred klicks from the nearest shithole, one way in and out, and lots of cops to guard their ’burbs.”
    “We might as well be on a Lanky planet,” Halley says. “We’re total strangers here.”
    “At least they like having us around now.”
    “’Course they do.” Halley grins without humor. “When your trash is full, you’re damn glad to see the garbage crew. Doesn’t mean you’re going to invite them to your dinner party.”
    I look back at the family walking down the street, away from us, on the way to some shopping or leisure, maybe a stop at Chief Kopka’s restaurant for a long lunch. Even their moderate middle-class wealth is an unobtainable level of luxury for a PRC rat. When I was