Futuristic Infantry 8

I exit the Metro at University Station, head for the coffee house. A giant security guard bars my way. I recognize her, ex-army sgt-maj.
"Sorry Maj, can't go in there."
"Why not?"
"Legally they are now a private members' club, not open to the public."
"Come on Tracy, they're barely afloat as it it. They want to reduce customer base?"
"Look Maj, the management aren't bad people; it's insurance driving this."
"Insurance?"
"If they remain open to the public, insurance renewal now costs four times as much. Go private, they get to keep their old rate."
It starts to dawn, all those fights, "so lemme guess. Membership is not open to blacks or women. Only white males who are students, staff or faculty."
She smiles sadly, "sorry Maj, just how it is. Block away, see over there. They are still public. May not be for long. Sooner or later, insurance renewal."
I choose a window seat, ponder. Not much near campus, it's not a big university. If these people go private, I'll hafta eat in the mess on lecture nights.
Is this discrimination? Could you take it to the Human Rights Commission? First, the coffee house is only doing what is legal and necessary for survival. So, your fight would be with the insurance industry; good luck taking on a Goliath like that.
Still, it's hard to feel any animosity even toward them. That is what they do, calculate risk. They give cheaper rates to non-smokers; discriminate based on age bracket.
So, what portion of bar and coffee house rumbles are women? Over 90%. So if you choose to cater to a crowd who mostly have never had a fight in their entire lives, should you not be entitled to an insurance break?
But then, that is punishing all women for actions of a few. Also, it's increasing the overall level of apartheid in society.
At public lectures, very few women attend, mostly young studenty guys. So, what happened? What fracture in society reversed some roles but not others? Historians will no doubt have a field day, when they debate our era.
I feel sick at heart, tired, worn out. I am sworn to protect this society. But is it really anything worth protecting? I grant you, we are better than the other side; we don't kill millions in horrible prison camps. But how angelic are we? Less and less as years go by.

Friday evening I'm sitting in the mess, reading a western novella. Deserted - you ain't whistling Dixie. My com device beeps, Brig-Gen Federenko, "Thank God I found someone sober. Switch to ultra secure mode."
"Ready ma'am."
"Maj, answer one question. Taking one APC only, driving at discreet traffic speed, how long to get to the Trudeau Park Bridge?"
"20 minutes ma'am."
"Just do it. Once you are rolling, we talk."
I speak to Nilofar the mess sgt, "you're an expert on 88 mm cannon, name 2 kitchen staff who can handle a machine gun please."
"Washington and Levesque."
We gather them, a driver and 2 spares for support.
"Brig-Gen, we're rolling."
"Good, sugar beet plantation has had a spot of trouble. Upwards of ten thousand droids. No firearms, but they do have hoes. You must stop them from crossing the bridge."
"What force is authorized ma'am?"
"If you hafta fry each and every one, you do it. Can you imagine the carnage?"
At the rear side of the bridge, I drop a soldier and portable traffic barrier, "no one gets through without my orders."
We cross the bridge, idle the motor, we've arrived with maybe 8 minutes to spare.
As the gargantuan mass approaches, I know negotiation is hopeless. As Napoleon said, "give em a whiff of grape."
"Machine gunners, ready your positions. Gunner, load and lock. I want grape shot configuration, 5% of the charge to be incendiary."
"Ready, ma'am."
"Horizontal panaroma setting, 110 degrees."
"Ready, ma'am."
"Point blank range."
"Ready, ma'am."
"Gunner, fire."
Our round leaves over 100 destroyed, stops the forward motion.
"Gunner, load and lock, same settings. Machine gunners, commence firing at will."
Gradually the mass of droids pulls back, second cannon shot not necessary.
As it darkens, I fire an Everlast flare, good for 1 1/2 hours. It throws an eerie smoky gray glow over everything.
And so, we wait. They don't charge; we don't retreat. Mexican standoff.
An hour after dark, I hear the clanking of armored cars, the Dunvegan Dragoons. My relief, well, like seeing the US Cavalry arrive in an old Western.
Maj Arezou Zamani flashes a wicked grin, "I'm in charge now. Take that APC, guard the bridge. This hasta be kept quiet."
There is no attempt at dealing with the situation, at getting them to return to work. The Dragoons simply wipe the lot. Still, I don't want to judge the Maj, probably just orders.
It disturbs me, a lot. I've seen battle, seen peacekeeping; never seen cold-blooded slaughter. But then I remind myself, they aren't human.
Soon I am busy, stopping reporters. The world is told there was a fire on the plantation, army called out to fight it. Partly true anyhow. Was me started the fire, with the 5% incendiary. Help get distance between them and the bridge.