Chapter 19: Support

Executive Chairperson’s Office
London, EastHem
Wednesday, September 27, 2152

Anthony Billings, Chairperson of the EastHem Executive Council was one of the most important people in EastHem. Not the most important, a role that was held by his main corporate sponsor, the Chairman of the Board of NewsComp, the main EastHem Internet service. Currently EastHem was in an excellent position compared to WestHem, and for that, Billings was pleased. WestHem was involved in a disastrous war with its former colony on Mars, bleeding ships as fast as they could be built and men as fast as they could be recruited. Meanwhile, Mars was supplying EastHem with billions of tons of food for the paltry sum of three tankers of hydrogen a month. Even the recent unpleasantness with A&C Hydrogen suborning an EastHem admiral into sending a Henry-class stealth ship to Saturn to destroy the Martian gas mine had been resolved, quietly.

That cozy status had the potential to turn ugly. He was meeting with the Councilmember responsible for Mars, Sylvia Dortsheer, and the Foreign Minister, James Horstel. Also present was Brigadier Archibald Bullstrode, Acting Commander of EastHem Military Intelligence; his boss had recently suffered a stroke and Bullstrode had been named as his replacement, with a promotion to Major General in the final paperwork stage.

“So, what is going on with the Martians today that involves me?” asked Billings. “It’s not that idiotic nonsense involving the Pope, is it?”

That generated smiles around the table. The Foreign Minister chuckled and shook his head. “No, sir, that seems under control. The Pope wanted us to start a new crusade and bring enlightenment to the Greenies, but he settled for a diplomatic mission. No matter what happens up there regarding the Catholic church, he can’t complain about it. He wanted us to do something, and we did. In the meantime, he gets to brag about it and use the mission for fundraising purposes, none of which will ever get to Mars.”

Dortsheer nodded. “I gather the Martians don’t have a clue about what to do with these people. They did send one back after he proved to be an asshole, but they do that with all the assholes. Regardless, they are giving the papal mission the attention it deserves, which is minimal at best.”

Billings said, “So? What is the problem?”

Bullstrode took over the conversation. “Sir, are you at all familiar with the program that WestHem Intelligence is running on Mars?”

Billings shrugged. “I assume they are trying to do something up there. Probably without much more luck than we have.”

“We have had some successes, sir, but it’s difficult working on a different planet with a different financial system. No, this is something I need to explain, with your permission.” Billings nodded and waved a hand, and Bullstrode continued, taking up a remote and turning towards a wall monitor. “As you are aware, the Martian Revolution and the two WestHem invasions have left approximately one-hundred thousand prisoners in the hands of the Greenies. Rather than negotiate a cease-fire and repatriate the prisoners, which the Martians have offered to do multiple times, the WestHem Internet services decided it made for better reporting and ad revenue to claim the Greenies had tortured all one-hundred thousand to death. All the prisoners were reported to their families as captured and killed in action, though their public pronouncements show very few losses.” Bullstrode put up a breakdown of WestHem personnel captured since the Revolution.

“That much we all knew,” said Billings, looking at Dortsheer and Horstel, both of whom nodded in agreement.

“On Mars, these prisoners have been released into the population. They have the same status as our emigrants, that of Martian residents, not citizens, and for the most part have adjusted to Martian society. Almost all have found jobs, and many have met and formed relationships with Martians; some have even married and started families. Our Chief of Station has met a number of former Marines and Navy personnel, and while they would prefer to be back on Earth, have adapted to their current situation.”

“Why I bring this up is because WestHem has decided to form a fifth column out of these military and naval prisoners. Somebody in Denver came up with the idea of finding and contacting captured Marines and telling them that if they don’t cooperate, their families back on Earth will be arrested, tortured, and killed.” He pulled up a vid sent from Mars and said, “This is pretty ugly stuff. This is a vid of something that happened to a Sergeant Callahan.” He played the videos, telling the sergeant what needed to be done, showing the capture and treatment of his parents, and their final gruesome death. He played it in full, and the others looked as if they would be sick.

“This information was sent to us by our Chief of Station, and he reports there are several other similar videos. We have been able to verify that the people involved were Sergeant Callahan’s parents, and that they were arrested by the FLEB with the assistance of local law enforcement, and that their mutilated bodies were discovered and identified. As best we can determine, there were two Callahans left behind on Mars, and the threat was made to the wrong one. By the time the Greenies figured it out, it was deemed too late, and WestHem Intelligence concluded the sergeant wouldn’t go along with the program.”

“Good God! This is ... monstrous!” said Dortsheer. It was bad enough watching the sergeant’s mother being raped, but what the father had to endure seemed even worse.

“I have no other word for it either, Madame Councilperson.” He turned back to Billings. “You commented on our lack of success gathering intelligence on Mars. This is one of the reasons.”

“How so?”

“The Martians have been saddled with a hundred thousand prisoners and have tried to integrate them into civilian life. This strikes at the very heart of that program. In response, the MPI has gone to considerable time and trouble to tighten their database security and are aggressively searching for foreign agents. Just like we send agents to Mars as involuntary colonists, WestHem is infiltrating malcontent groups with sleeper agents. When the Martians find an agent, that agent is blown. Ours they send back. WestHem’s get sent to prison for life, and they have no parole.”

“How does this affect us? Leaving aside the immorality of this program, why do we in this room need to consider it,” asked Billings.

“The Martians want us to try and find some of these family members and offer them an escape. They will give us names and addresses, and a message from the supposedly dead soldier on Mars. We then somehow get the message to the family member, and if they agree, we will smuggle them out of WestHem and ship them to Mars,” said Bullstrode.

“They’re crazy! Why would we do such a thing? We’d be hazarding our assets in WestHem to try this, and how many people would go along with such a crazy idea?” commented the Foreign Minister.

“That’s why I am even bringing this up. They offered to pay us for the people, an extra fifty-thousand tons of foodstuffs, and we get to choose the type, no questions asked.”

Dortsheer looked stunned at that. “Whoa! Anything?”

“We asked that. Yes, Anything. If you want an extra fifty thousand tons of marijuana, fine. Or beef, or stuffed mushrooms, or ... whatever, you decide.”

Dortsheer looked at Billings. “We need to talk about this.”

Horstel interrupted, “First, General, just how many people would we be talking about? Tens of thousands or some lower number? How many family members would actually be interested?”

“That’s a fair question, Minister. One thing to consider is that for most of the stranded Marines and Navy, they’ve been there over six years. They have built new lives. Some of their parents or surviving family have died. Some will decide to stick with their current Martian families and not the Earth families they haven’t seen in six years.”

The others all nodded in understanding. Horstel added, “And I am sure some of these soldiers and sailors probably never had family. Some were probably orphans.”

“No question about it. I can order a check made on our records of WestHem personnel files, see if we can determine how many are susceptible or not,” said Bullstrode. “Finally, what will be the percentage of individuals who we contact and actually believe this whole scheme? For six years they have been telling the families their sons were tortured to death. Now they get a comm from somebody claiming to be their son, living on a different planet, and telling them to trust EastHem, their hereditary enemy for over a century, and leave everything behind. Which is more likely, that they blindly come with us or that they call the local FLEB office?”

“That is a very good point, General,” said Billings. “Suggestions? Can you have our people on Mars look into this further?”

“Yes, that was my thought as well. I certainly wouldn’t act on this without orders. For what it’s worth, this program that WestHem is running has to be a low percentage play. They probably haven’t been able to coerce more than a handful of former Marines. It’s more a potential problem than a real problem.”

“Keep us all informed, General,” concluded Billings.

“Yes, sir.”

Martian Capitol Building
New Pittsburgh, Mars
Wednesday, October 4, 2152

“Mister Secretary, thank you for seeing us,” said the Papal Nuncio, Archbishop Petrucci. Saying the name Clitsucker was more than Petrucci could stomach. How could anybody create such a name? Hopefully he wouldn’t need to use it. “I’m just sorry we weren’t able to meet when we landed. Allow me to present my credentials.” He laid a package on Clitsucker’s desk; it was parchment and covered with calligraphy, ribbons, and sealing wax.