Futuristic Infantry 1

I'm on my way to a public lecture at the university. Knowing what the mess will serve tonight, I opt for a university area coffee house. I order a grilled Italian sandwich and vanilla hazelnut.
My order arrives just as 4 university students, all male, take up station at a nearby table. I'm not eavesdropping, they are speaking too loudly.
Look of disgust, one pulls out a paper, "for your group term paper, argue one of 2 sides:
a) women are now totally obsolete; or
b) women are largely obsolete, but not totally yet."
"Hey come on, I opt for 'a'. Who here has screwed the real thing, I mean after age 14?", accusing look.
"Yeah, I hear you, it's a crazy law, can't own a droid til age 14."
"Ye-ah, like every father above the rank of dishwasher buys his son a droid for 14th birthday present. Those things are awesome. All orifices automatically adjust to perfect fit."
"And only poor people own one. Everyone else has a harem. Perfect, no headaches, or PMS'ing, happy to do the housework."
"And if you're crazy enough to want kids, get em out of a lab. No genetic defects, perfection."
"Ok, so we agree, argue 'a."
The quietest of the lot says gently, "look 2 tables over, whaddya see?"
"So?"
"Career mil. You boyos wanna bring back the draft? Get your asses shot off? So maybe just maybe they're useful for something."
Oy! Now none of this is news to me. Still, does not do wonders for your self-esteem. Now, I'm not in the mood for the lecture anymore. Big heap of paper on my desk, could use an evening.
I'm about to leave, when it hits the fan. Two girls I vaguely recognize (in civvies) walk up to their table.
Each grabs a shirt front in each hand. Mocking tone, Southern accent, a giant paratrooper drawls, "you boys care to put your fists where your mouths are?"
Obvious fear on all four lads, the paras could wipe them without raising a sweat.
I realize duty calls, walk over, quietly say, "y'all are familiar with the law?"
Nods.
I continue, "back door, to the alley, means fight by consent, no assault charges. Front door or stay inside, means no consent."
The giant para leers, "what'll it be?"
The guys have enough sense to stay inside. The paras shrug, return to their table.
Quietly I remark, "10 decibels lower and it could be a private conversation."
Blushes all around, "yeah ma'am, we get the message. Be more careful in future."
I turn to leave.
"Wait a moment." It's the guy who argued for option 'b'. "Could we ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Truth is we don't have tons of free time. Parttime jobs, endless term papers. Right guys?"
Nods.
"Suppose you could show us a fast way to surf onto the positive contribution of the military?"
I smile, yeah why not? I sit, take out my palm pilot, give them a dozen sites. As I leave, they are already dividing them down.
I feel marginally better, decide to catch the lecture.
It's fun. History of how, over the centuries, the novella came to dethrone the full-length novel. On the Metro ride back to base, I think. Just a minute. Men never read either, novel or novella. All the fiction, now or in Antiquity, was read by women.
And name a woman who does not have tons of free time these days.
So, it's a paradox, how the novel fell and novella rose.
Maybe the real truth is simply novella fits easier into bag or military pocket.
I arrive back in BOQ (Bachelor Officer Quarters). Tonight's debate is history of porn. I skip it, go to bed early.

I always pick up the student newspaper when I'm there. Witty, irreverent, tells you stories the corporate media won't. I read it over breakfast.
One is halfway between a rant and whine. A busy grad student/sessional lecturer relates his woes. It's a struggle, finding time, attend and give classes, mark papers, thesis. His droids aren't helping matters any, that insane level of jealousy among them. He even goes so far as to suggest a grad student/sessional stop at one droid. At least til the thesis is done.
The adventures of a girl taking an advanced statistics course. Considerably brainier than the guys, she demands payment (and I don't mean money) for any assistance.
The final resolution of the Smith case. The university rules she didn't misuse her authority. As a lab assistant, she had no authority over marks. The guys' complaints are dismissed.

I do not get even one minute to start on my paper backlog. Two soldiers are at my office door. "Uh ma'am, MP's gave us the choice, it's you or the counsellors."
I groan inwardly, but usher them in. Everyone else in that stairwell is lodging complaints. Frequent loud arguments, at all hours. As there is no violence (yet), MP's cannot charge.
As they talk, it's obvious why - mismatch. "Butch" is bound and determined that "femme" will do the sweeping, dusting, laundry. (No grocery shopping, cooking or dishes as all eat in mess.)
"Femme" is equally determined to get exact equality.
Quantity of work is tiny, but the battle lines are hard-drawn. Not one iota of give on either side.
Trouble is, regulations forbid me from even hinting at mismatch. The morning vanishes in circles. Finally I suggest the counsellors. They cannot suggest mismatch either, but have more leeway than an ordinary officer.

My afternoon is little better. Three hours of Library Committee meeting. What is the burning issue? Why so much passionate debate? Well, our periodicals budget is a mere $350 for the upcoming fiscal year.
With this level of vitriol, they aren't far from fisticuffs. Only my presence, deference to authority, keeps them from duking it out in the alley behind the building.
We adjourn for the day, having agreed on zero. Think I'd be crazy enough to make suggestions? They'd hate me for picking sides.